


Gallows Pole

by charcorvin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, alternate season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 94,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcorvin/pseuds/charcorvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem, they'll find, is balance. Good and bad, light and dark, love and hate.</p>
<p>Dean took the Mark with only one goal: kill Abaddon. But the Mark remains, burning him out while Cas's stolen Grace does the same, and Sam is losing both of them. The outlook is grim for the trio but when Cain returns along with a young girl with big plans, the Winchesters see a light at the end of the tunnel that might not be hellfire. But first they have to wade through the darkness.</p>
<p>Time is running out for Team Free Will but help comes in the form of allies they'd never expected and friends they'd thought long-lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hangman, Hangman

 

                Georgia had given it a solid week in the cramped prison cell before she was ready to pull her hair out. Between the poor food ( _maggots, Crowley, really?)_ and the threadbare and stained mattress, she was ready to bail the first night.

                Crowley, _bless,_ was still under the impression he’d had her locked up for the last few weeks, of course. So he’d poke his head in every night around 9:30 and Georgia would be there, looking every bit as downtrodden and put out as he expected, with her legs pulled up on the (again, disgusting) bed, elbows to knees, staring at the blood-streaked wall across from her.

_But is it really blood?_ She wondered. _Or does he do it for the ambiance?_

                “Ready for a chat, pet?” he’d ask, same as always.

                And same as always, her left hand would swing up and flip him off.

                He’d _tsk_ softly and carry on. He never bothered her besides that, never came in the cell, never forcefully attempted to gain information from her. _Integrity,_ she remembered that had been his catchword when he’d made his bid for president of Hell, King, whatever. He could pretend all he wanted. She knew he was still afraid of her.

                So he’d pop in and she’d give him twenty minutes to toddle off and then she’d return freely home and sleep in her cozy, _clean_ bed and he’d be none the wiser.

                And then Dean had let the witch go.

                He didn’t know who he had, Georgia constantly reminded herself. Georgia had had to watch Rowena scamper off ( _only to be capture by some low-level demons around the corner_ , she thought gleefully) and Dean had it out with the Marine.

                But now the witch was in play and Crowley would buckle immediately if not sooner and Georgia’s carefully constructed plan was blown to smithereens. Keeping an eye on Crowley was priority one so Georgia became a kind of resident of Hell’s finest prison. Only to learn three things:

                Crowley remained the biggest momma’s boy on the face (and below) of the planet.

                Crowley had, much to the derision of the other demons, saved “the angel.”

                Rowena didn’t just want to kill Crowley. She wanted to break him.

                Georgia had everything she needed stored in the aforementioned super-gross mattress, squirreled in bit by bit. There was only the matter of time now, waiting until the perfect moment. Preferably when Crowley was nowhere near here so she could take out Rowena on the way.

                _Best laid plans,_ Georgia sighed as Crowley appeared at her cell door. He wasn’t alone.

                “Oh,” Rowena’s shrewd gaze was critical. “Lookey who we have here.”

                Well, the jig was up now. Rowena, unfortunately, wasn’t an idiot. Crowley honestly believed he had her, had finally built a prison that would contain her. Rowena wasn’t that foolish, she knew Georgia was only in the cell because she wanted to be. The question became…would she tell him and worm her way further into his good graces? Or would she wait to see what Georgia was up to ( _lady, you don’t want to know)_? That would be worse, Georgia knew. Crowley was expecting Rowena to betray him, sooner or later. He’d never see it coming from Georgia.

                “Ready for a chat, pet?” Crowley asks.

                Georgia’s reply remained the same.

                “What a poor lamb. Shouldn’t ye just put her out of her misery?”

                “She’s not a wounded animal,” Crowley responds, focusing not on Georgia’s eyes but her dark blonde hair.

                “No, she certainly isn’t,” Rowena agrees, dragging her feet as Crowley walked away. “I won’t have you hurting my dear boy,” Rowena presses her face between the bars, looking every bit the concerned mother.

                Georgia stands, facing off with the witch. “Wouldn’t dream of getting in your way.”

                “Oh sweetie,” Rowena pulls a hex bag from her pocket and tosses it easily to Georgia. “You’re not in my way.”

                Georgia catches the bag instinctively. The magic pulses, biting, nipping at her skin, looking for weakness. She raises it to her eye line, studying the runes etched in the leather. She breathes out as if blowing the seeds off a dandelion, reducing the bag to nothing but dust.

                Her hand drops. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

                So, basically, Georgia was out of luck and out of time. Rowena was on to her, Crowley no help, and the Winchesters were _not_ invited to this party. Georgia pulls her backpack from inside the mattress, checking and rechecking the supplies inside. It wasn’t much. Reaper blood (donated), a hand-carved sigil that looked a bit like a vegvísir. She didn’t need the spell itself, she wasn’t opening the door to let anything out.

              She would be jumping in.

***

              In two days, had been the original plan. But _Rowena_ and _crap_ and _life_ and _idiots_ and here Georgia was, easily slipping through the supposedly impenetrable prison door and into the halls of Hell. She had to admit Crowley had done a decent job of cleaning up. The last time she’d been here it had been all fire and brimstone and the tortured screams of a thousand souls wailing in the distance. Now it mostly looked like a bank.

                _Figures_ , she thinks bitterly, wanting to find something besides Rowena to be pissed about. _Although, this is the part of Hell Crowley lives in. Of course it’s going to be nice. Breezy. Smelling like leather and old libraries, the_ dick. _Actual Hell is probably the same as always._

                The throne room was easy to find since all hallways led to it. The throne itself was uncharacteristically simple, all dark wood and sleek, carved rounded edges. She wanted a throne of melded swords, she wanted to maintain her hatred toward the _president_ of Hell. She wanted-

                _Oh crap._

                She hadn’t waited long enough. She was sure Crowley would go to sleep, or go to a bar, or go somewhere that wasn’t here. He was _not_ supposed to be reclining in a comfy chair, all silhouetted against the fire like some kind of misunderstood hero, nursing a drink and looking at her like he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

                “Isn’t it past your curfew?” he asks.

                _Oh that’s how it is._ This song she knew. _If he calls you kid, don’t stab him in the throat. You’ll want to, I know. But don’t. He’s still useful._

“Me?” Georgia snarks right back, crossing her arms. “Where’s your mommy?”

                He doesn’t respond, just swirls the liquor around in his glass. He raises his hand like he’s thinking about snapping. Like he’s going to try to finish her.

                “You know you can’t trust her,” she holds up her hands, distracting him.

                “Am I supposed to trust you then?” he asks, rising from the chair to approach her.

                “Goodness, no. Definitely not me. I’m definitely out to get you,” she answers instantly, stomach _not_ swooping when he grins. “Trust yourself, I guess. Or, you know, insert something equally cheesy here.”

                “You look well,” he says, soft, and his gaze runs from her black boots, up denim-covered legs, to the black hoodie, falling to rest once again on her chin-length blonde hair.

                “You’ve seen me every night for the last three weeks.”

                “Yes, but you do the ‘oh poor me’ routine then, all sad eyes and starving.”

                “Guess I wasn’t a very good actress.”

                Georgia hears the click-click-click of heels down the hallway. Rowena must have overheard them, decided to check up on her son. She grasps the sigil tightly, stepping closer to the throne, an arm’s length from Crowley

                “No,” Crowley says, not bothering to cover the hurt in his voice. “You were the best.”

                She has to go. Now. Actually, ten minutes ago, if you want to be fair. She never should have paused to talk to him, hadn’t known she wanted to until the opportunity presented itself without bars between them.

                “Did you really save the angel?” she asks instead.

                His mask slips, he didn’t know she knew. He didn’t know _anyone_ knew. He wants to lie to her but finds himself nodding instead.

                She nods too, chin jerking down once to let him know she heard him. Understood him.

                Then she pitches the sigil onto the throne where it glows and comes to life, pulsing orange and hot. Georgia slams the vial of blood on her chest, breaking it, sprinting toward the light. Crowley calls out to her, maybe in fear or warning but she doesn’t stop. She leaps through the portal.

                She inhales bitter ash and cloying dust. Her skin and clothes are instantly coated, hanging heavy on her suddenly tired bones. Georgia surveys her surroundings and takes her first shaky steps in Purgatory.

***

              Georgia took stock of what made it with her. The three watches strapped to her wrist are all working, thank goodness. Everything else, minus probably the blade stashed in her boot, she could have survived without. The concept of time, however, got so flummoxed in Purgatory it was impossible to differentiate night and day, days to weeks, weeks to years and so on. The watches were ticking away as normal, unaffected by the surroundings. Expensive, commissioned watches made of iron (much to the dismay of the watchmakers) were good like that.

                Heavy as hell though.

                She laughs quietly and her own joke and waits.

                And waits.

                And then, surprise. Waits some more.

                Normally she’d pass the time by singing to herself, muttering low under her breath, but the chances of being snuck up on here were astronomical. Practically a guarantee.

                But it was so _boring._

                She taps on her knee but it ended up sounding like footsteps and heartbeats so she stops. She learns she could fit thirty-four tiny braids on the left side of her head. She sharpens a stick into a stake.

                She clicks her tongue so many times she’s starting to annoy herself.

              “I said the third tree,” a brusque voice comes from behind her, the jab softened by the lightness in the words.

              “This is the third tree,” she turns around, fixing him with a glare. He’s unimpressed, arms not coming down from where they’re crossed across his barrel of a chest.

              He tips his hat, acknowledgement that the code phrase was good. “Miss Georgia, I presume?”

              She reaches out, taking his chilled hand in her own. “Hi, Benny.”

***

              “It isn’t far then?” Georgia asks, keeping up easily with Benny’s large strides.

              “Not sure,” his tone is casual, relaxed, but his blue eyes are sharp. He doesn’t trust the silence around them. It’s too quiet. “It’s a _need_ thing. An’ I’ve found the way out before, that ain’t exactly what you’re looking for. And I might have to remind you, I still think this is a pretty poor plan.”

                “A need thing?” Georgia repeats. “You mean it shows up when we’re ready for it or something?”

                Benny doesn’t answer immediately, holding out an arm to stop her. After a moment he drops it and they carry on. “When Dean an’ I were here last, I couldn’t get a lock until we found the angel. The portal, the one we were lookin’ for then, responded to the one who shouldn’t be here, who needed an out.”

                “But that could have been either of them,” Georgia points out. “Castiel didn’t belong here.”

                “No, ma’am, he did not,” Benny agrees tersely. “He was like a goddamn lighthouse. But you, the distance we’ve covered, I’d’ve expected three, maybe four, attempts. But nothing. Not hide nor hair of another beastie. They’re steering clear of you.”

                “That’s interesting.” Her eyes tell him it is not interesting and he should ask no more about it. She concentrates for a moment, focuses on what she needs, where she needs to be. “Anything?”

                “This way,” he concludes, thrown by the abrupt sense of purpose he feels. The path is clear now, still, between them and where this slip of a girl wants to go.

                When the message had arrived weeks ago, that someone was looking for a way into Hell, Benny assumed it was a Winchester. They were the only ones dumb enough to try. Of course, talk lately said things weren’t going so well for the hunting duo. The words were whispered between monsters at the campfire (before sharing food and then slaughtering everyone until only one remained): _Dean Winchester is a demon._

                Benny was the last man standing at any given campfire. He didn’t like those words the first time he heard them, nor the thirteen after that. He would not admit, ashamedly, that he had nearly wished it were true. If Dean were a demon, and someone, probably Sam, put an end to him, Dean would come here.

                Benny was so tired of being alone.

                And then came the message, it sought him out. New words of hope and power coursing through him as he stood over the headless remains of the latest camping party.

                _Lafitte. I need your help._

                The strong voice matched the strong girl marching in front of him, backpack hanging low on her slender shoulders. He hitched his own bag higher, caught somewhere between wanting to ask and not wanting to know.

                “How’d you get my name?” he asks the question he cared less about first.

                “From an old story,” she says evasively, choosing to pause her strides and hand him a flask. It’s blood and he’s shocked. “Don’t imagine you get a lot of the good stuff down here.”

                “Wouldn’t much matter, can’t die,” he says, nearly draining the whole thing in one go. It had been a while. “How’s Dean?”

                “If you’re worried he’s a demon,” Georgia motions forward and they continue walking. “You can relax. He’s…fine now.”

                “You don’t seem so certain.”

                “Probably because I’m not. This the place?”

                It’s an outcropping of rocks under the twisted trunks of two trees. Benny reaches forward, tracing the sigil carved in the stone. He knows these woods, this whole goddamn plane of existence, like he knows his name but he’s never seen this before.

                Georgia mutters under her breath, something that sounds like her name, and the rocks fall, revealing a howling void behind them.

                She looks satisfied and Benny remembers the mission, the reason they’re here. He’s going to let this girl walk into Hell, sure. She wants to, he ain’t gonna stop her. But she’s not going alone and she’s not going unarmed.

               “Hold up,” he roots around in his bag, tossing her something large and beige.

               “What’s this?”

               “Wear it.”

              She pulls it on, rolling the sleeves where they fall too long and swishes her arms back and forth, getting used to the extra weight. She puts the back pack on again and he hands her an angel blade.

              “A trench coat?” she asks, palming the thick material.

              “Supposedly an overcoat.” He waves his hand at her quizzical look. “They’re afraid of it.”

              Georgia blinks twice. “They’re afraid of an overcoat.”

              “They are afraid of the guy who wears the overcoat.”

              Georgia turns back to the portal. It’s already pulling at her, gripping tight with dark fingers, searching. “You don’t have to come,” she says over her shoulder.

              Benny steps up beside her, linking their fingers. “Just try to get rid of me.”

               They let the portal pull them into Hell.

***

_Don’t look up,_ Georgia reminds herself. _Don’t look up. Don’t look up._

                Even as she thinks it, repeatedly, her eyes travel upward. Bodies and chains and blood and bone and _screams._ She’s been here before, she knows what to expect, but it’s always terrible.

                It shouldn’t feel like coming home.

                She retains her grip on Benny’s hand, pulling the vampire behind her all the way. The floor is rocky, uneven, but solid. There is no lake of fire, there is no acid rain. Whatever Hell these people are in, it’s of their own design. They suffer how they believe they should suffer, to the extent they should suffer, and then the choice is made.

                They all choose to become demons.

                Benny doesn’t look up. He’s too busy watching _around_. In every direction, demons stare at them. Formless but for the black smoke that occupies vessels, the clouds stand in human shapes, heads turning to follow the girl and the vampire’s journey. He expected an attack, words, anything. But the forms are silent. They’re scared.

                They’re trembling and frightened and _fleeing_ from the girl before him.

                Georgia, for her part, pays them no mind. She moves with purpose, intention. The demons can’t hurt her and they know that, but she can hurt them.

                _Why are they afraid of you?_ Benny wants to ask, but didn’t want the answer.

                _You wouldn’t believe me anyway,_ is her silent reply.

                The door they happen upon is just a door. It isn’t set into a wall, not even into a jamb. It stands alone in the middle of Hell. The demons may be more afraid of it than they are Georgia, but Benny can’t tell for certain. Georgia reads the runes etched across the black paint. She eyes the scratches, faint as they are, from demons daring each other to touch it, to get close. It’s a stupid game.

                One she couldn’t resist as a child.

                She traces the _G_ she left all those years ago. It’s bold, scraped deep into the paint, so far that the wood shows through. It doesn’t matter that the door itself isn’t real, that it’s just a symbol for what’s beyond it. Georgia had touched this door, left her mark on it.

                “This is as far as you go, I’m afraid,” she turns to Benny, taking in his stricken expression. “I’ll be right back out. If any of these smoke stacks get the bright idea to mess with you, kill them. And if they kill you, I’ll come grab you in Purgatory. We’re going home.”

                Benny had heard those words before and he finds himself believing them again.

                Georgia steps through the door and familiarizes herself with the surroundings. She keeps her face blank, emotionless, unconcerned with the other two bodies in the room. They stop their bickering just long enough to stare at her.

                She hadn’t expected it to look like a literal Cage.

                Georgia approaches them with purposeful, steady strides until a few paces remain between them.

                The blond man studies her coat. “Castiel?” Lucifer asks with Nick’s mouth. Both men look wary.

                She focuses on the other man. He’s younger, blond as well, but his gaze is sharp. She reaches forward without reluctance, burying her hand through his ribs, into his chest, into his soul and _yanks_ with all the strength Purgatory and her quick march through Hell hadn’t robbed from her.

                Adam falls forward, panting, green eyes blinking wildly as he stares at her from the floor of the Cage. She helps him up, steadying him with an arm across her shoulders and one around his waist. Michael, bizarrely, has resumed his costume in the young John Winchester.

                “Georgia,” Michael doesn’t bother hiding his annoyance. He’d like to hit her, raise a fist to her, but he knows better too. Lucifer grins, appreciating the fact that Michael could be messed with.

                “I’ll just leave you two alone then,” she mutters, backing away from them, toward the door back to Hell. It wasn’t the best option but it was the only one available. Adam’s weight is difficult to hold but Michael can’t be allowed to touch him again.

                “I suppose it will all be over soon?” Michael asks.

                “And I’ll still be left down here,” Lucifer gestures to the Cage.

                “I’ll see what I can do,” Georgie half-promises, slamming the door shut.

                If Benny is surprised that she managed it without a wound he doesn’t say anything. He does point to the storm roiling, hot and angry, on what could be considered the horizon. The clouds thrash and whine, the demons scatter, and the humans cease their cries long enough to watch it pass. Georgia recognizes the red smoke.

                “Time to go, I think,” she pulls both men toward her and with the very last of her strength, zaps them out of Hell.

***

              Benny’s palm is rough and calloused where it grips Georgia’s chin. He didn’t know where she’d sent them, and it was only good luck that had them landing somewhere dark. The closest building was a barn and he slid Georgia and the boy inside, beside a half-empty bag of dog food and some wooden pallets. Adam had passed out immediately, leaving Benny holding an unconscious girl but somehow _back in the world._

                Part of him wants to leave. Get them somewhere safe, out of the way, and then go. That had been the deal ( _why was he always making deals to go places he didn’t want to?_ ) Georgia had set the terms: get her to Hell, he’d get to come home.

                Mostly, he’d wanted a purpose. A chance to fight again and someone to fight beside. Their adventure had offered little in terms of action. The monsters and demons stayed well clear of the girl and she hadn’t sought out any brawls. Even her confrontation with whoever was behind that door had left her unscathed. He wonders, once again, what he’d gotten himself into.

                “What can I do ya for?” A man appears from around a truck he’d been filling with gas. He’s older, with dark sunglasses and a hat but his shirt proclaims JAYNESTOWN CANTINA and he’s wearing ragged blue jean shorts with work boots. He looks harmless enough. Although, the same can be said for Benny.

                “Got myself in a spot of trouble,” Benny tells him.

                “Louisiana boy, huh?” the man asks, holding out his hand for a shake.

                “Yes, sir,” Benny replies, staring at his reflection in the man’s glasses. It’s worrying, not being able to see someone’s eyes. “Would ya be so kind as to tell me where I am?”

                “Between Hazard and Ravenna, thereabouts,” the man responds, smile suddenly not so friendly. He noted Benny’s long pause and finished, “Nebraska.”

                “That wouldn’t be too far from Lebanon, would it?” Georgia arrives at his shoulder, rubbing her temples. “Sheep farm.”

                “Retired,” the man says. “Lebanon, just past the border. Probably, oh, hundred miles or so.”

                He studies Georgia, noting the knife tucked in her boot and the easy set of her shoulders. “Hunters?” he asks.

                “More of a fishin’ man myself,” Benny chuckles.

                “ _Yes_ ,” Georgia knocks Benny with her elbow. “We’ve got a baby bird in the barn.”

                “No problem,” the man’s friendly smile returns and he leads them into the house. “Met my fair share of hunters throughout the years. Always manage to get themselves in trouble. Turning up strange places without cars, cars eaten by swamp monsters, needing a place to hide out or recover. Help yourselves,” he indicates the cupboards and fridge and Georgia digs in happily, filling up her backpack and coat pockets. The man notes Benny’s hesitation and says mildly, “There’s a freezer in the basement.”

                “You keep blood in stock?” Benny’s voice is awed when he returns.

                “Saved my hide a time or two. Vampire’s looking for a meal, I look like a treat. I… _persuade_ them to have a mixed drink instead. What they do away from my town, I can’t say. But I’ve got the power to stop ‘em here, I’m gonna do it.”

                Benny nods in agreement, tearing into the bag. Neither the farmer nor Georgia pays him any mind.

                “Any word lately?” Georgia asks.

                “Nothing at all, complete silence,” the farmer is pulling a busted atlas from his desk, showing Georgia the driving route to Lebanon. She tells him they’re going to Kearney first.

                “We’re not far at all!” she says in delight. “Probably would have landed right on top of it if I hadn’t been so tired.”

                “I got some bunks downstairs,” the farmer says. “You’re more than welcome to them.”

                “Thanks, sir,” Georgia accepts the roadmap from him. “We gotta press on, to Kearney at least.”

                “Need wheels then,” the farmer didn’t wait for them to answer, ushering them both out of the house and into another shed across the way.

                Inside is a mismatch of cars and tractors and motorcycles and what Georgia is pretty sure an actual police vehicle, the farmer waves toward the collection. “The Scamp runs the smoothest but the S10 is your best bet if you’ve got something to haul.”

                Georgia writes down the man’s name, Rick, and address and promises to return the car as soon as she could. He helps get Adam into the Scamp, shoves some money into her hands and tells her he’d see her soon.

                “Still good people in the world, then?” Benny asks from behind the wheel.

                “It would appear so,” Georgia says mildly.

***

                “You don’t have to stay, you know,” Georgia says as the road turns from gravel to concrete. They’re about 40 minutes from Kearney and she’s tapping away on her phone. She peers over the seat at Adam, glad to see he’s breathing.

                He decides not to tell her that he’d thought about it. “I’d like to see Dean, if it’s all the same. Been a while.”

                “Didn’t end on good terms?” she asks.

                “It was what it was, I s’pose,” Benny replies, shrugging. “No use cryin’ about it.”

                “It’ll be okay though, right?”

                Benny doesn’t know what to do with the uncertainty in her voice. She was combat-ready, probably battle-tested. There was a hardness to her, a solidity, that’s earned from depending on yourself. Surviving when you knew there was no back up. Dean and Sam both wore that armor, blemished though it was, and Benny liked to think he did too. He didn’t like seeing it on someone so young.

                “How old are you?” he asks, then winces. “Sorry.”

                Georgia gives a dramatic, long-suffering sigh before laughing. “Twenty-three. Kind of.  Time was weird where I grew up…so I feel a lot older than that. Are they nice?”

                “Is nice what you’re looking for?”

                “I’m curious. Things I’ve heard, things I’ve met that have met them, they sound terrifying. God’s weapons, they have an angel in their pocket, Crowley is looking out for them now,” she ticks their accomplishments off on her fingers. Benny notices they’re crisscrossed with scars. “I mean, they have to be stumbling onto hunts because there is no friggin’ way creatures are actually _seeking them out_ at this point. Everyone, including _angels_ , have been beaten by the Winchesters. Who is still stepping into the ring with them?”

                “Sounds to me like you’ve got a guess,” Benny says.

***

                The weekend in Sioux Falls had been a good idea, though he won’t admit it to Sam. Between the massacre at Claire’s and Charlie’s Oz world tour, and Tiny Dean, downtime was good. Downtime was simple.

                _But…_

                He wants to grasp the Mark, scratch it, tear it. It’s burning again, not like before when it was screaming for violence, but it’s _tugging_ him somewhere. Toward something. He can’t understand it, so he can’t explain it to Sam. When he tries Sam assumes Dean is unsafe again, losing it. He offers to drive, offers to let Dean rest but gets more concerned when Dean refuses. Only Dean knows where they’re going, because the Mark is guiding him.

                He doesn’t think Sam would be comforted with that thought so he keeps it to himself.

                They pull in at Walgreens in Kearney because Dean needs something to drink and Sam’s calling Jody to let her know where they are, (“You two get back here,” she’d said as she hugged them. “And bring your stupid angel too.”)

                He gets out of the Impala and immediately breaks into a sweat. July isn’t kind in Nebraska and the parking lot is full, wiggly lines of heat simmering on hoods makes the air at least a million times hotter. He saves the Impala door from swinging too far, nearly dinging the car beside him, which Dean now realizes is a 1973 Chevy Nova. She’s a burnt orange color with racing stripes. Absolutely beautiful.

                He wants to take a longer look but the air conditioning is drawing him inside. Not before he recognizes what has to be an Oldsmobile Jetstar. _What the hell is going on here? Did I get zapped to the past again?_

                Dean finally makes it into the store and heads straight for the coolers, not bothering to cover up the fact that he sticks his face into the cool rush of air. He wonders if he could ice the Mark off, they haven’t tried that yet. Maybe it is just a burn ( _getting desperate now, aren’t you, Dean?)_. It’s not just a burn.

                But it has stopped hurting.

                Dean straightens when a beige flash catches his eye; a trench coat whips around the corner, nearly knocking over a display of Oreos. Dean’s across the store in a flash, turning the corner just as quickly, letting out a relieved breath at the figure hunched over, back to him.

                “Hey, Cas,” he reaches out, hand to his shoulder, spinning the angel around.

                But it’s not Castiel. It’s a young woman with dark blond hair and inquisitive eyes. She makes a surprised noise low in her throat, nearly dropping the beef jerky and Pringles clutched in her arms.

                “Whoa, sorry, sorry,” Dean steps away. “Thought you were someone else.”

                “You surprised me,” she laughs, then squints at him. “You look really disappointed.”

                “Huh?”

                She switches the stockpile to one arm, as if she’s holding a baby on her hip, and picks up a backpack from the floor, slinging it over her shoulder. “You look sad that I’m not your friend.”

                “Oh,” Dean blushes, _blushes_ , at this girl who has to be 10 years younger than him. “No,” he finally says dumbly. “You from around here?” _Good, Dean. Make Jailbait here think you’re hitting on her._

                “Nah,” she says easily and gestures toward the door. “Just in town for the thing.”

                “The thing?” he asks.

                “Cruise Night?” she says. “You didn’t notice the flock of classic cars outside?”

                “Oh yeah,” Dean’s grinning brightly now. “There’s a ’63 Jetstar.”

                “Actually, it’s a ’64,” she corrects. “That your Impala? ’67?”

                Georgia sees more of Dean than most. Of course she notes the freckles and the sandy blond hair. She considers his height, the set of his shoulders, the fact that his left boot lace is nearly undone. 

                Just how friggin’ tired he looks. But his soul shines brightly too, more radiant than most, though it’s shot through crimson where there’s been hurt, gold where there’s been healing, but the worst are the shards of black. The sickness sinking in. She pulls away, focusing again on the emerald of his eyes.

                Dean nods but not too vehemently. Baby is not exactly a secret. Demons have keyed her and hit her and slammed an eighteen-wheeler into her. They know what the Winchester’s drive.

                “ _Christo,_ ” Dean coughs into his shoulder but her eyes remain hazel. She looks at him strangely though. He can’t blame her.

                “Dude,” Sam pops up next to him as if summoned, glancing quickly between Dean and the girl. Dean can see him reading the situation wrong, Sam thinks he’s chatting her up. Then his gaze drops to the trench coat and a Grinch-like smile curls over his face. Dean wants to poke him in his stupid dimples.

                Sam emanates the same light as Dean, almost blinding. Not as diminished, not as tarnished, but pieces are worn. Like a threadbare quilt that can’t quite keep the heat in. His dark brown eyes give away more to his story than his soul does. There’s fire in them.

                “Excuse me?” another man is trying to get to the cooler behind them and the three jump away from each other. The girl heads to the counter and pays for her things, Dean lines up behind her.

                She gives another brief smile at the door, acknowledging both boys. “Nice to meet you. You too, Sam.”

                She’s already gone by the time Dean realizes he’d never given their names.

                The burning starts again.

***

                “If _Christo_ didn’t work, I’m not sure there’s something wrong. She didn’t do anything,” Sam points out, barely glancing up from his computer. “Cruise Night, here we go. Happens every July, classic cars originally, then mods, now it looks like just everyone drives up and down the main road at 2 miles an hour and then all the college kids get drunk.”

                Dean is on board with Cruise Night. Three men have stopped to gush over Baby and Dean hasn’t smiled this much in ages. His face might actually break with pride. He said all the right things about their cars too, but none of them held a candle to Baby.

                Driving had been horrendous. They’d made it barely a block in 20 minutes and if Dean thought he was angry with the Mark, it’s nothing compared to the Mark on top of Road Rage. Just when he’d thought his head would explode, he noticed a police officer waving them through the barricades on a brick street. Now they’re parked on Central between a 1953 Dodge Coronet and a 1966 Chevy Caprice.

                “We should stay the week,” Dean says, digging into his waffles. They’re at a kitschy, eclectic weird-ass coffee shop/diner that shares a storefront with a tattoo parlor. The food is good, and the view of classic cars is good, and Dean doesn’t see the point in trying to leave right now anyway. It would take them 60 years just to get out of the city.

                “Look at you,” Sam teases. “Proud father.”

                “I’m just glad my girl is finally getting the respect she deserves. She’s a lady.”

                “Your lady is sneaking around on you,” Sam nods to the darkened streets where a large man is running his fingers over the hood.

                “No!” Dean stands, nearly upending his chair. He’s halfway out the door shouting, “Don’t touch her like that!” when he hears the break of glass in the alley.

                He sends a silent _I’ll be right back, promise,_ to Baby before stepping into Hunter mode and peeking around the mouth of the alley.

                It’s the girl from the store, because of course it is, but she’s not wearing the trench coat. Dean knew this was a trap, albeit a poorly planned one since she looks to be in trouble. The thought crosses his mind that he could just go. She was clearly up to something, she knew them so she had to be bad news. He could walk away now and let it sort itself out.

                _You look sad that I’m not your friend._

                Dean sighs and waits for his opportunity.

                “Didn’t think he’d just let his favorite toy run away, did you, Georgie?” one of the demons asks, keeping his distance.

                “Just go,” she says lowly, not at all the friendly tone she’d used in the store. Maybe she really was in trouble. _You thought Alex was too._ “Not to sound like a Bond villain but this is your last chance.”

                Dean texts Sam to sneak to the opposite end of the alley, before sinking into the shadows, crouching behind a dumpster, sidling closer.

                “Crowley-“ another demon starts.

                Georgia cuts him off, “Crowley didn’t send you.”

                _Girl knows Crowley._ So everyone was definitely in deep shit. Dean slides a blade from his coat. There’s no rush of violence, no urge to attack. Just the steady _th-thump, th-thump, th-thump_ of his heart as he waits.

                 “His majesty-“

                “Oh shut up,” Georgia sounds like she’s getting bored. Like she wants to get this over with.

                “She’s right,” says an obnoxiously familiar British voice from behind the demons. They turn as one, some staring at Crowley with contempt, others with abject fear. The biggest demon steps forward.

                “Sir.”

                “Stow it, Asmodeus,” Crowley snaps. “Come on out, Winchesters. Wouldn’t be a proper shindig without the gruesome twosome. Meet Georgia.”

                Sam walks carefully toward them, choosing to stand slightly in front of Georgia. Seems he’s willing to trust her, or he wants to protect her. _Always the hero, Sammy._ Dean stands behind her. If she makes a move toward Sam, he’ll gut her. The demons can’t seem to decide the threat, half face Crowley and the others face the Winchesters and Georgia.

                “Who sent you?” Crowley asks, focusing on the demons now. “It was Moloch, wasn’t it? That prick.”

                Asmodeus sneers, “I would no sooner bow to Moloch than I would bow to you!” He lunges forward, knife drawn, before shuddering so completely to a stop it would be comical if not for what stopped him.

                A dozen Hellhounds erupt into existence, six on each side of Crowley. Hackles raised and panting, they watch the demons with red eyes, snarling.

                “Jesus,” Dean pulls on Sam’s arm, trying to get him to back up. “ _Jesus.”_

                “What?” Sam glances in confusion at Dean.

                “What do you mean, ‘what’? The Iditarod team from Hell.”

                “He can’t see them,” Georgia whispers.

                “Isn’t he the lucky one,” Dean hisses. “This curse comes with Hellvision, what a fantastic perk.”’

                 “I don’t ask much,” Crowley says. “Total and complete worship and adoration, that’s all. You get to live your lives, I don’t bother anyone.”  His tone goes dark, fierce, and he looks at Georgia as he says, “I don’t like people mucking about with my things.”

                It must look very bizarre to Sam, Georgia realizes, as suddenly the demons are torn to pieces by invisible creatures. Then she remembers the last time he saw something like this happen, _who_ it happened to, and she’s reaching up and covering his eyes before she thinks it through. Dean reacts, wrenching her away from his brother and tossing her into the wall so hard her head knocks against the bricks. Stars dance in her vision, mingling strangely with the carnage around them. Asmodeus is the only one left, cradling what used to be his left arm. It appears Crowley isn’t done with him yet.

                Crowley snaps and the muck, the blood and the viscera and the guts, is gone. The largest of the hounds remain though, and she closes in on the Winchesters. Georgia presses her fingers to Sam’s temple and he groans, finally able to see it. _That is a giant Hellhound._

                Dean didn’t think he feared anything more than he feared himself, dreaded what he was capable of. But with a Hellhound the size of a hippopotamus stalking toward him, he remembers the simpler fears in life.

                He never expected he’d freeze though.

                But Georgia pushes by him, by Sam, and kneels. Her voice turns sickly sweet in a cute way as she says, “Juliet! Who is a pretty girl! How are you?”

                Dean thinks these are ridiculous last words and that Georgia should at least be embarrassed before she’s puppy chow but then Juliet is doing that abashed, tail-swinging, head down, sideways walk that happy dogs do, right before she flips onto her back and allows Georgia to rub at her belly.

                “You are the best, so fierce and ferocious, yes!”

                “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Crowley places a palm over his eyes, turning away from the girl and his supposedly terrifying hound of Hell.

                Georgia stands and holds out her hand. A ball of fire flares and she tosses it a few times, riling Juliet up. “You want the ball?” she asks. “Go get it, go get it!”

                She throws the fire like a baseball and it streaks miles off into the distance with Juliet barreling behind it like the roadrunner.

                There is a tense moment of ‘ _what the hell’_ before Georgia laughs. “Really, Crowley? Did you really think she was going to attack me? I raised her, idiot.”

                Crowley’s embarrassment and Dean’s confusion and Sam’s befuddlement and Georgia’s laughter is the perfect cover for Asmodeus. He flicks his hand, sending Georgia careening into Dean, and they slam into the wall. A blade slips into his hand and he rounds on Sam, the weakest thing blocking his escape and he slices once, cutting a neat line in Sam’s outstretched hand. Sam rears back but Asmodeus falls with him, driving the weapon deep into his bicep.

                Then, abruptly, Asmodeus is no more. His headless body slumps uselessly to the ground and Sam is pretty sure he’s dead because the last time he saw this particular vampire, said vampire was being killed.

                Georgia is at his side, her coat being wrapped around his bleeding arm and Dean is standing, struggling to process who just saved his brother’s life. _Again._

                “Benny?” Dean says in disbelief.

                “Well hey, brother.” Everything is the same. Those always-amused eyes, that coat, the cap. The low bass of his voice. Last time they’d stood like this in an alley, Benny was the corpse.

                Adding to his confusion, another familiar face appears, out of breath and unsure of his welcome.

                “Adam?”

                “Another Winchester, honestly?” Crowley says, rolling his eyes.

                “Adam’s last name is Milligan,” Dean and Georgia say as one.

                “How?” Dean says and then pulls Benny in for a hug. “I mean, hey. Adam.” He shakes his half-brother’s hand. “Also, how?” Benny inclines his head, indicating the girl carefully tending Sam’s wound. Sam hisses as she applies pressure and something on her arm catches and holds Dean’s gaze.

                His hands are wrapped around her wrist a moment later, cranking down so hard she’s sure to have a bracelet of bruises in the morning. But it’s there, stark, just like his. Georgia bears the Mark of Cain.

                She rips her arm away from him and steps away. “We have company.”

                “Dean.”

                That’s the voice he’d been waiting for, Dean knows. He spent the last ten minutes seeing old faces but not the one he really wanted. Not the one he called out to when the blade sank into Sam’s arm, or when the Hellhound looked at him like a dog treat. Not the one who could explain this whole _fucking_ day to him.

                “Cas,” it’s barely a sound, barely a breath. The tightness in his chest eases, relaxes, and he feels like he can breathe again.

                Castiel looks away from Dean when he’s certain the hunter is well. Crowley is dismissed, ignored. Sam will survive, and though Castiel aches to heal him, he can’t expend the Grace for the task. If Benny is a surprise, Adam is a wonder. And then there’s…

                “Georgia,” Castiel says the name with the same gravel in his voice as always but there’s something akin to happiness in it.

                “Nice coat,” she glances between Dean and Castiel. “He wasn’t the company I was talking about, though. I meant them.” Their attention turns to the end of the alley where reinforcements have arrived. A dozen or more demons, armed with blades, are filling the narrow space and coming toward them.

                “And you made me send my dog away,” Crowley mutters, moving toward Sam in what can only be described as a protective manner. Dean doesn’t think this day can get stranger. And he’s had some doozies.

                “What do you say, Castiel?” Georgia skips forward as if she’s going to take on the whole crew herself. “Like old times?”

                And then Cas is moving to her side, shoulders brushing, looking every bit the avenging angel Dean remembers from a barn in Pontiac, Illinois. There is no hunched, human sorrow. There is no hesitation. He has an angel blade and suddenly Georgia has one too and they _annihilate_ the first line of demons as if they’d been projections.

                Cas swings and Georgia ducks, the demon beside her is ganked. Georgia stabs and Cas shifts, missing the blade as it’s driven into a body behind him. Their shoulders connect again. Together they are 360 degrees of war machine.

                Crowley, of course, can never resist temptation to up the ante. In full view of Dean, he withdraws the First Blade from his coat. He smirks, hefting it before throwing it perfectly, end over end, and straight at Castiel’s back.

                Dean has a miniscule and infinite second to think: _No._

                But Georgia is there. She catches the handle, turning the momentum and impaling a demon. Dean follows the trace of light as the Mark on her arm glows, it swishes back and forth like a sparkler, leaving the imprint on his eyes when he blinks. Demons are cut down like wheat until only one remains. He cuffs Cas on the ear while Georgia is turned away, wrestling the Blade from a sternum. The demon lashes out and the Blade goes spinning away, twirling on the cement like a dervish, settling at Dean’s feet.

                What can he do but pick it up?

                The alley goes silent. Castiel drives his angel blade into the chest of the demon before he focuses every ounce of his attention on Dean.

                Something in Dean’s head buzzes, paces like a tiger. He wants to fight it, doesn’t want to lash out at Crowley who is closest, standing between Dean and Sam as if Dean is somehow a threat to his brother. _You wanted to drive a hammer into his skull,_ the voice mutters. _Wouldn’t the Blade feel so much better?_

                 Another voice answers. It sounds like Sam and Cas.

                _You don’t have to stay. Don’t have to hurt Sam. You don’t have to do anything. You can do nothing. Just go. Take the Blade and go. No more responsibility, no more death, no more. No more-_

“It’s not what you think it is,” Georgia is saying, suddenly closer than Dean expected. He stumbles back, nearly falling, but Georgia grips his wrist, the Blade suspended between them.

_Kill her. She wants the Blade._

                “I don’t want it,” Georgia says as the same time Dean says, “I don’t want it.”

                They’re both sinking down to put the Blade on the cement. Dean can’t loosen his grip, wants to plow it into her stomach. Georgia looks worried but not afraid.

                Everyone else looks afraid.

                “Don’t be scared of me,” Dean begs quietly. Just between them.

                “I’m not,” Georgia replies, honest. “Put it down.”

                He does.

                Georgia kicks the blade to Crowley, ready to promise the ass kicking of the century for that move when Dean’s sharp inhale stops her. She doesn’t look over her shoulder, she doesn’t have to. Sam, Benny and Adam don’t react but Cas stands straighter, approaching Dean cautiously.

                But it’s Crowley’s pitiful whine that tells her exactly who it is.

                “Oh,” she says to Cain. “Hey, dad.”

                As one, Cain and Georgia raise their right hands and snap their fingers.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Irresistible - Fall Out Boy  
> Gods & Monsters - Jessica Lange (Lana del Rey original)


	2. Hold the Heavens from the Earth

                 Not a lot had changed since the last time Dean had been in this house. The weird, indoor beehive remained on the side table. Tea was already set out with cups at the ready. It smelled like old books, spice, and dust. Colette peered at him from her frame on the mantelpiece. Only now more pictures adorn the shelves and Dean is sure they weren’t there before. Georgia grinning, arms wrapped around the enormous, furry neck of a Hellhound. Georgia, five or six, wearing Cain’s beekeeping hat. Georgia, asleep in a hammock and dappled in sunlight, _American Gods_ spread open on her chest.

                _He couldn’t risk her,_ Dean thinks. _Colette was safe but he was afraid we’d go after Georgia._

                The sick roiling feeling starts in his stomach again and he reaches out to steady himself on the couch but Cas is there, warm palms gripping his biceps and lowering him to sit.

                “Are you alright?” Cain asks Georgia. _His daughter_ , Dean reminds himself.

                “Of course I am,” she nods toward Benny and Adam. “Got what I went for, didn’t I?”

                “Giving me a coronary?” the beard twitches.

                “You worry too much, old man,” Georgia helps Sam into a chair, peeling her blood-stuck coat from his arm. Before she asks, Cain is opening a first aid kit, spreading thread and gauze on the table. “Is this okay?” she asks Sam. “Would you rather Dean do it?”

                “No,” Sam is scrutinizing her, trying to match up his vision of her in the shop to the girl currently cleaning his wound with practiced ease. It wasn’t often Sam considered his upbringing in a positive light, but with a father like Cain, it’s hard not to imagine the horrors she’d seen. “Go for it.”

                Cain hands Sam a tumbler, filling it halfway with whiskey and tells him to knock it back. Sam does so and Cain refills it. He gestures around the rest of the room but Adam and Benny are standing awkwardly in the corner and Dean is trying not to show he’s shaking on the couch with the angel looming over him, standing defensively between him and Dean, and his daughter is sewing up a Winchester.

                Cain’s life didn’t used to be so complicated.

                “What now?” he asks Georgia.

                “The cars are still in Kearney. Dean may not care now but he’ll want his car eventually. I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

                “Benny, Adam,” Cain looks to the two. “Would you mind coming with me to retrieve the vehicles. It isn’t far.”

                Both nod, strictly to have something to do and without a sound the three are gone.

                Without her father there, Crowley rounds on Georgia. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, makes a slow pathetic gesture to himself with his hands, he sighs.

                “I killed Meg,” he says and then winces.

                Sam feels Georgia’s fingers stiffen against his wound and he finds himself inexplicably glad that her fury is not directed at him. She rises and turns slowly, clenching and unclenching her fists like she’s considering throttling the King of Hell.

                He meets Dean’s stare across the room and asks silently, _Five bucks on the girl._

                Dean’s amused frown replies, _Unchallenged._

                “That’s what you have to say to me?” Georgia asks and every man in the room knows that the question was rhetorical.

                Crowley starts to open his big, dumb mouth anyway.

                Georgia doesn’t give him the chance. She snaps once and he falls silent, mouth opening uselessly. She snaps again and he’s tossed back into a chair. A third and he’s rendered unconscious.

                “Moron,” Georgia squeezes her eyes shut. She looks at Dean and Cas. “Second door on the left.”

                Cas pulls Dean from the couch and guides him.

***

                Dean isn’t sure what to make of Georgia’s room. The walls are bare, no teen heartthrob posters decorating them, but the desk and dresser are littered with papers and notes and books and w _eapons._ He hefts a sawed off, impressed at its precision. A solid wood truck acts as a footboard to a full size bed draped in quilts. One of those weird, bowl chairs is pushed to the window. The closet door is open, clothes thrown amuck as if she’d recently rushed to pack. Another door led to a bathroom with old-fashioned but clean fixtures.

                “Is he mad?” Dean asks.

                “Sam? No,” Cas replies, shrugging out of his trench coat and laying it across the trunk. “Of course not.”

                “No,” Dean clarifies. “Cain.”

                “I don’t believe so. Why?” Cas’s brows pull down in confusion.

                “I was supposed to…he said after I took care of Abaddon, he wanted me to come back and kill him. But I figured, you know, at the time, if the Blade took care of Abaddon…maybe it would work on Metatron too. But it didn’t and,” Dean’s shoulders tighten and he sinks to the bed, burying his face in his hands. “He didn’t ask much from me but I still didn’t…”

                “Dean,” Cas kneels before him, loosening the laces of his left boot. “I don’t think Cain’s intent is to hurt you. He wouldn’t have sent his daughter to your aid if that were the case. Perhaps he had an alternative reason for wanting to see you again.”

                “His daughter,” Dean repeats.

                “Adoptive,” Cas admits, pulling the boot off and beginning work on the other. Dean tries to shove him off but he might as well be pushing at a wall for all the difference it makes. Instead he settles his hand on Cas’s shoulder, thumb resting against the warm pulse in his neck.

                “Hey, Cas,” Dean starts as his right boot joins the other at the foot of the bed.

                “I know,” Cas says. “You prefer to sleep fully clothed in unfamiliar places but Georgia is giving us her room and you won’t disrespect her by getting dirt on her bed.”

                _Giving us her room._ It repeats over and over in Dean’s head until it’s just the word _us us us._ Dean relaxes onto the bed, laying across it sideways until he figures out what Cas is doing. The angel, of course, removes neither the suit jacket nor his own boots, and instead perches on the bowl-chair.

                “Adoptive daughter?” Dean asks and Cas nods. “And you know her?”

                “Georgia is unique. But it’s best to hear her story from her.”

                “That’s assuming I have time.” Dean finally accepts that Cas is not going to move to the bed and lays his head on a pillow, nearly taking up the whole thing just on his own. It was a stupid, errant thought anyway. Cas doesn’t sleep and while he should at least pretend to be upset that the angel will be watching him, he can’t help but be grateful.

                He would be _more_ grateful if someone in this stupid house would touch him like he isn’t seconds away from immolation. _Well_ , he reconsiders, _maybe the right type of immolation…still involves touching though._

                But what if Cain kills him in the morning? Is it really worth the fronting, the pretending, that he doesn’t want Cas as close as he can? Maybe Cain is a ‘gallows at dawn’ type. Maybe it will be a fight to the death. Dean didn’t keep his part of the deal, didn’t return to Cain…what if he has to fight Georgia? No, that’s stupid. Cain wouldn’t risk his daughter.

                Dean remembers the ease with which Georgia slaughtered through a dozen demons and knows he doesn’t really stand a chance.

                This could be it. The last sleep of the condemned man. And he didn’t even get pie. He got waffles because they only had blueberry and while blueberry is fine it isn’t the best and he didn’t say goodnight to Sammy and he didn’t get to talk to Benny or Adam and Cas feels miles away and Dean wants nothing more than to reach across that distance and…

                “What can I do?” Cas asks, suddenly leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, head bowed. “How can I help?”

                _This is your chance,_ he tells himself. _Are you really going to risk not taking it?_

                “Get over here,” if he says it like a command maybe it won’t sound weak. “Can you please just…just shut up and get over here?”

                Cas doesn’t bother to hide his amused grin but he resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he knew what Dean was thinking, it was the same thing Dean was always thinking. But he was surprised the hunter acted on it. _He really believes he’s going to die_. _He’s finally letting himself have something he wants, because he thinks this is all he’s going to get._

                Cas burrows his right arm under Dean’s neck and the pillow, rolling the hunter to his side so Cas can press close behind him. Dean is considering a ‘little spoon’ joke to ease the ache in his chest when Cas’s left hand lands, soft at first, and then gripping tight at Dean’s now-unscarred shoulder.

                Dean wishes, not for the first time, that he could trade the Mark of Cain for the return of Cas’s handprint.

                “Cain will help me,” Dean mumbles with all the conviction he can muster. “Cain will get rid of this curse.”

                Cas shrugs like it makes no difference to him and promises, with his breath on the back of Dean’s neck, “I’d rather have you, cursed or not.”

***

                “So you and Crowley,” Sam asks and winces as Georgia drives the needle into his arm.

                “Sorry!” she chuckles. “That was not nearly as intentional as it seemed.”

                “But a little intentional, maybe?” Sam asks, whiskey and blood loss making him inquisitive. Invasively so. “It just seems…”

                “Believe me, dad gave me the whole speech. But he’s so cute and so good to me and dad, he’s got goals,” Georgia’s voice rises and she grimaces at herself. “That was an impression of me, by the way, when I first met him. He was a crossroads demon then with big ideas and a British accent. I mean, it was really beyond my control, right?”

                “So you liked him when he was a nobody but not now?”

                “It’s amazing what a little power will do,” Georgia says, tying off the last suture and refilling Sam’s glass. She cleans up the bloody gauze and scissors and pours herself a drink. “Not just to him, mind. Everyone. No one really liked him when he was a nobody, hard to imagine. Then he starts going through the ranks and everyone wants a piece. Looking back, it was stupid of me to think it was something real between us.”

                “And then Meg happened?” Sam asks.

                “She never liked me. Meg wasn’t much of a leader but she liked power and she did not like that I had it. She didn’t know who I really was though, she’d seen us together and thought I was just one of the flunkies he’d taken a shine to.”

                “I wondered why he hated her so much,” Sam mentions, twirling the now-empty glass. He knows better than to refill it, any more and he’s going to be hung over and considering what he’s going to have to deal with ( _Deancas_ his brain snickers) in the morning, he’s going to need his wits.

                “What do you mean?” Georgia puts the whiskey away and, after a beat, lays a quilt across Crowley.

                “He really went after her and she took a lot of shots at him that I wouldn’t have. I figured she just hated him because of the Lucifer thing but I guess it was personal. He was vicious.”

                “Well, that’s kind of nice to hear,” Georgia says brightly. “He is still a jerk though.”

                Sam’s gaze shifts between Crowley and Georgia, not missing the affection still present. She was mad, sure. Hurt, definitely. But still, Crowley would really have to screw up to truly turn her away. Georgia seemed like the type that once you had her loyalty, that was it, she wasn’t letting you go for anything. ( _DeanCas_ , his brain coughed again.) And Crowley…though loyalty was not a word he would usually associate with the King of Hell, Crowley had a certain _affection_ maybe for the girl. They’d had Crowley locked up for months, _months_ , and he never mentioned Cain’s daughter. _He knew we were going to kill Abaddon,_ Sam thinks. _And once Dean saw that Mark on her arm, he wouldn’t have hesitated._ Crowley had kept the name Georgia a secret, perhaps the ace up his sleeve but Sam didn’t really think so. Crowley had been protecting her.

                Another thought became clear.

                “Dean said Crowley was terrified of Cain but it wasn’t that at all,” Sam laughs loudly. “Crowley wasn’t scared of the father of murder, he was scared of your _dad._ ”

                “Adoptive, but yeah. Crowley doesn’t screw up half-assed. Seriously, one of the few people on the face of the planet who can annihilate you…and you piss off his daughter. He always did like a challenge.”

                “Adoptive…so,” Sam frowns. “Colette, she was your mom. She wanted a child and Cain…found you?”

                “Would that it were so simple,” Georgia sighs. “I was here before Colette.”

                Sam doesn’t hide his shock, couldn’t if he wanted to. “When Cain was a demon? He cared for you when he was a demon? You were raised by a demon.”

                Georgia’s brows pull together as if she doesn’t understand. “Of course he did. Though my take-your-daughter-to-work days were probably a little more violent than most kids. You think demons don’t have the ability to feel emotions, but they do. It’s all a little…twisted. The closest I can explain it is…”

                “Selfish,” Sam supplies. “They’ll care about something that works in their favor.”

                “Yeah,” Georgia nods. “Exactly. How-“

                “I was soulless,” Sam says and hastily adds, “For a while. Not now, obviously. I didn’t care about anything…not really, not even Dean. And I could have killed him, I mean, killed anyone…I did hurt a lot of people and I never felt bad about it, never thought about it at all. But I didn’t kill Dean because I kept thinking, 'He’ll be useful at some point. I’ll need him for something.'”

                It sounds awful, Georgia knows. And it hurt the first time Cain explained it to her. That his keeping of her started the same way. He’d kept her safe and happy because, at first, he knew she’d be important. Then, of course, she had _become_ important. “Right,” Georgia says. “That’s how it was. Cain, initially in his own way, cared for me. He said it was like learning a new weapon. At first you’re shaky and uncertain, you screw up. Then you get better, get used to it. Then you start to miss it when it’s not there, want it with you all the time, rely on it. He also thought it was amusing how from the ages of three to thirteen I, and I quote, ‘Never shut the hell up.’”

                “He adapted.”

                Georgia nods. “His caring for me may have started a little selfishly but I grew on him. We grew up and changed together. And now there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.”

                “But, Colette was in the…1800s, wasn’t she?” Sam runs his fingers over the table as if drawing a timeline.

                “You’re trying to impose your idea of linear time on something outside of that. This farm is protected, it’s separate from the world kind of like Purgatory. I was born in 1991 but I grew up here and traveled with dad a lot. So,” she waves her hands around. “Let’s just say, I age because I want to, time doesn’t apply to Cain and it doesn’t apply to me.”

                “Because you have the Mark.”

                “I don’t think we should talk about that until Dean is conscious. He took the Mark under duress and not knowing the full implications of it. I admit, dad probably wasn’t real forthcoming and I doubt Crowley was helpful in the least.”

                “But,” Sam doesn’t want to ask because he doesn’t want to hope. “Will my brother be okay?”

                Georgia grasps his hand, the Mark obvious on the pale skin of her forearm. “Yes, Sam. Dean is going to be okay.”

                Georgia is grateful that one of the very first lessons Cain taught her had been lying.

***

                Dean reaches for Cas before he notices that the shower is running and the bed is empty. The space beside him is warm, pillow holding the impression of Cas’s head and Dean can’t ignore that last night really happened. He also finds that he doesn’t want to.

                He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night, dreamless and deep, feeling safe despite the unfamiliar surroundings. He gets up and heads for the door without reaching for his boots.

                He isn’t sure what to make of what he walks into. Crowley is nowhere to be seen but Georgia is dancing in the middle of the living room, Juliet’s plate-sized paws braced on the girl’s shoulders and standing at least an inch taller than her. Georgia is holding Juliet at the shoulder blades, swaying back and forth singing, “ _Hey, hey mama, said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.”_

Juliet’s tongue lolls out of her mouth and Dean is certain the Hellhound is smiling as she snuffs at Georgia’s damp hair. “ _Oh, oh child, when you shake that thing, gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting.”_

“Are you really singing ‘Black Dog’ to a Hellhound?” Dean asks, scrubbing sleep from his eyes.

                Georgia doesn’t look the least embarrassed but she sets Juliet’s front paws down and ushers the beast outside. She washes her hands before turning her attention to breakfast. Dean falls into a chair at the table, nodding in thanks when Georgia places coffee in front of him.

                 “What did you think that song was about?” she asks. “Black dogs.”

                “Hellhounds?”

                “Well yeah, I mean. They got their ten years, didn’t they?”

                Dean’s eyes widen like he’s put on new glasses and seeing the world fresh. “Oh my God.”

                “Pancakes?” Georgia doesn’t wait for his reply, shoveling three onto his plate and piling the rest on another.

                “You made all this?”

                “Dad started it before chores, I just finished it up,” Georgia shrugs. “They got the cars back last night. He got Adam and Benny up early this morning instead of me. Remind me to thank them.”

                “Oh, ‘dad’, huh? Good ol’ Papa Cain.”

                Crowley comes in from the bathroom, also freshly showered. He sits across from Dean, arms crossed over his chest, pouting.

                “What’s your problem?”

                “I’m not letting him talk yet,” Georgia replies, hopping up on the counter and eating a slice of bacon. “Until he has something helpful to contribute, he can be silent. Geez, did you sleep in your suit?” Georgia’s question is directed at Cas, just now arriving in the kitchen. His clothes are rumpled and creased. Georgia mutters under her breath that she wouldn’t have bothered giving them her room if they weren’t going to make use of it and ignores Crowley’s plea to speak as she passes by him. She returns with a stack of clothes and shoves Cas back into her room to change.

                “Can you be nice?” she asks as Crowley points between Dean and the angel in the bedroom. He considers for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, at least you’re honest. But I can’t help you. Sorry.”

                Crowley resumes pouting.

                Sam appears next, accepting some aspirin from Georgia. His arm is sore and his stitches are itching. He does a double take when Cas returns, eyeing the loose jeans and white henley the angel is sporting.

                “I am wearing Cain’s clothing,” he says dryly, tightening his belt.

                “Hey, I could have given you some of mine,” Georgia grins at Cas’s abashed thank you.

                The door swings open and Benny and Cain are laughing together like old war buddies, Cain clapping a large hand on the vampire’s shoulder. Adam trails in behind them, looking tired but happy. Dean stands, his good mood evaporates into nothing and he faces Cain.

                “Well hello, Juliet,” Cain says to the dog that has followed them in. His eyes scan the group, counting to see that everyone is there, before his gaze rests on Dean. “Mr. Winchester.”

                He heads for the counter, dropping a kiss on Georgia’s forehead before getting his breakfast. Adam and Benny follow suit and the peculiar group squeezes together at the table.

                “That’s one fine automobile you have, Dean,” Cain says. “Castiel, I cannot say the same for you.”

                “He wanted to leave it,” Benny mentions, sliding into a seat on Dean’s other side. “Had half a mind to let him.”

                Dean pushes his plate away, appetite fading. He’s appreciative of Cas and Benny beside him but terror is crawling up his throat. Cain is at ease, scrutinizing plates to make sure everyone is eating enough and Dean decides the anticipation is too much. He doesn’t want to let the good feeling bubbling in his chest go, but he has to. “What is this?” he asks.

                “Breakfast,” Cain answers.

                “ _Dad_ ,” Georgia sighs.

                “I can’t tell a joke?” he asks.

                “Not to people who don’t know you’re joking.”

                “Do you know why I asked you to come back, Dean?” Cain asks the hunter, clearing empty plates and piling them on Crowley’s lap. “Make yourself useful, do the dishes.”

                Dean expects Crowley to argue but he nods once, joining Georgia at the sink and dropping the plates in the basin. He looks back to Cain. “You asked me to kill you.”

                “A rather grand request, I think. One you ignored.”

                “I thought I could handle it,” Dean admits, eyes on his hand curled together on his lap. “I killed Abaddon.”

                “I know,” Cain says. “Good work.”

                “I figured I could take out Metatron along the way. Didn’t pan out so well.”

                “So you went with Crowley.”

                Dean doesn’t nod so much as lose strength in his neck. His head hangs and he counts to twenty, hoping to stop the burning in his eyes. There are too many people around, people he cares about. People he doesn’t want to see him weak.

                “Do you think your weeks as a demon would have been the same had you stayed with Sam? Or if Castiel had been with you?”

                “What?” Dean asks. “What are you talking about? I wanted to kill Sam. If Cas…if Cas-“ he’s straying dangerously close to that Thing he doesn’t talk about. Doesn’t want to think about.

                “Did you really? Or did you just believe you wanted to?”

                “It’s the same damn thing,” Dean responds angrily. He wants to get up and leave, he wants to knock over the table, he wants to get this over with. Cas reaches between them, action hidden by the table, and hooks a finger into the belt loop at Dean’s hip. His blue eyes are resolutely forward as if he hasn’t pulled Dean back from the edge ( _again)_ and listens as Georgia interjects.

                “It’s not the same. You don’t see us,” she indicates her and Cain. “Flying off the handle.”

                “You’ve had decades to get used to the Mark,” Dean argues, pointing at the scar on his arm. “This evil fucking thing.”

                “It isn’t evil,” Georgia says evenly. “It’s power.”

                That knocks the wind out of Dean. “Of course it’s evil. Lucifer-“

                “Lucifer gave it to Cain when he traded places with Abel. That was an act of love, not hate,” Georgia returns to her perch on the counter and Crowley, rather than moving back to his chair, chooses to stand beside her.

                “I wore the Mark for many years before I turned the blade on myself. When I awoke as a demon, I acted as I assumed a demon must. I fought, I killed, I trained the Knights of Hell. I was Hell’s most feared warrior.”

                “And then Colette,” Dean mutters.

                “No,” Cain says. “And then Georgia.”

                Dean’s head snaps up and he stares between the girl and Cain. “While you were…you raised her while you were a demon? Wow, CPS really dropped the ball on that one.”

                “My mother was dead and my father couldn’t keep me. I know what you’re thinking, what you want to believe. That I was somehow tortured, that I grew up neglected or abused,” Georgia shakes her head. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I grew up strong, well-trained, I wanted for nothing. I got to travel the world, go anywhere I wanted. Any _time_ I wanted.”

                “What, you two are stronger than me?” Dean hisses, embarrassed. “Better adjusted?”

                “You behaved the way you thought you should,” Cain says. “I believed you would come back here and I could explain that there was another way.”

                _Another way._

                “Another way,” Dean repeats. “So…it can be transferred. But can it be removed?”

                Cain and Georgia exchange a look but neither answer him. Dean is up an instant later, nearly pulling Cas to the floor as he detangles himself from the belt loop. He slams the door on his way out and doesn’t bother to fight the frustrated tears streaming down his face.

***

                “Well,” Georgia knocks hear head back against the cupboard. “That could have gone better.”

                “Could have gone worse,” Cain says.

                “Is that true?” Sam asks. “Can you not…”

                “Honestly,” Georgia tells him. “We don’t know. We’ve never tried. Dad killed most of the Knights and Dean killed the last one.”

                “You never removed the Mark,” Cas says. “But you did repress it.”

                “First, I had to get away from the Blade,” he reaches out to Crowley and curls his index finger toward his palm twice. Crowley sighs before handing over the Blade. Cain grasps it with familiarity and a deep sense of nostalgia.

                Cas straightens, watching Cain intently.

                “You’re worried for nothing,” he tells the angel. “It holds no more power over me than the Mark. It’s a weapon, a terrible one that has tasted more blood than any other. Possibly combined. It’s a relic of an older time, a different me.”

                “Before Colette,” Cas says.

                Cain nods. “Georgia didn’t ask me to stop because she never knew any different. Colette knew that there was a better way to live, for all three of us. It wasn’t difficult to stop, I simply didn’t have a reason before.”

                Georgia scoffs. “Oh, real nice,” she teases.

                “This is the most normal dysfunctional family breakfast I’ve ever been a part of,” Sam says.

***

                It’s the dock from Dean’s dream.

                He’d set off with no destination, as he didn’t know where he was, only _out_ and _away_ being important. The lawn sloped gently down toward the woods and he’d bee-lined it for the trees. A couple acres later the trees gave way to a sandy beach and there, jutting out a few yards into the lake: the dock.

                His footsteps are silent on the wood panels which surprises him until he remembers he’s not wearing shoes. Now his socks are damp and sandy but it doesn’t matter because he’s standing in his dream.

                The body that sidles up beside him isn’t Cas though, nor Sammy. But it’s just as welcome.

                “Bet you can’t believe the shit storm you’ve wandered into, huh?”

                Benny chuckles. “You fools can’t keep out of trouble. I will admit, your trouble’s more dramatic than most.”

                “You know us, we go whole-hog,” Dean watches the slow ripples of the water. “How’d you get out?”

                “The girl,” Benny answers. “Georgia. Few weeks ago, the hound shows up with a message. Someone needs help gettin’ into Hell. Figured it was one of you two maniacs and I’d offer my services.”

                “And she got Adam from the Cage?”

                “That, you’d have to ask her about. Wasn’t invited to the show.”

                Dean mulls over this. He doesn’t want to trust Georgia, doesn’t want to trust anything with the goddamned Mark of Cain. But Benny was here…and Adam…and although his circle of trust included Sam and Cas and Charlie…he couldn’t ignore the fact that it would be really easy to let Georgia in too. There was something carefree and easy going about her, a sort of peace. “You think she’s okay?”

                “I do,” Benny says immediately. “Question is, are you?”

                “Nope, definitely not okay,” Dean answers.

                Benny is taken aback by Dean quick admittance of not being alright. He expects a laugh or an off-color joke or a punch of the arm. Not the defeated slump of the hunter’s shoulders. “Seems I’ve missed a bit, thought I’d have to pick a bit harder to get you to say it.”

                “Sayin’ it ain’t the problem. Fixin’ it is.” Dean knows he slips into Benny’s drawl. It’s a habit he’s picked up as a hunter, mimicking others, building a comradery. He wonders why he’s never copied Cas’s phrasing. “And now it seems there isn’t any fixin’ it. So.”

                “Just ‘cause it’s never happened doesn’t mean it never will. Got a lot of people pullin’ for you, brother. No need to give up hope just yet.”

                Dean smiles tightly. “I thought Cain brought me here to kill me.”

                “And instead he fed you breakfast. Guess you gotta stop expecting the worst from people.”

***

                Castiel catches Adam’s eyes across the table and asks, “How are you, Adam?”

                “I’m, uh, okay. I guess. Really, really tired.”

                Sam remembers those first few days, sleeping and eating and pretending everything was normal until Lucifer showed up in the kitchen. Adam doesn’t appear distressed though. “Are you sure? I mean, I know it can be…rough.”

                “If you’re asking if he’s like you were, he’s not,” Castiel says.

                “He was in the Cage for years, Cas,” Sam mutters.

                “I’m right here,” Adam interjects. “You can just ask me.”

                “I’m sorry, I know,” Sam says, abashed. “Look, I was in the Cage for what…a few days? Maybe a week? And when I got my soul back after, like, a year it was in shreds. Full-on, mind meltdown. Does he, this is weird, do you have a soul?”

                “Yes,” Castiel and Adam say at once.

                “When I rescued you from the Cage,” Castiel tells them. “I was foolish, ill-prepared. Although they began the same, the way I saved your brother would not have worked on you. I believed I could drag you from Lucifer, bodily, and pull you out. I was mistaken and an undeniably pivotal piece was left behind.”

                “Yeah,” Sam scoffs. “My soul.”

                Regret settles on Castiel’s features but he carries on. “Georgia did nearly the same thing. She walked into the Cage and pulled Adam away from Michael. The Cage was not built to hold humans so she was able to leave with him. Michael did not hold onto Adam’s soul the way Lucifer held onto yours.”

                Sam runs a hand through his hair, “What does that mean?”

                “Michael,” Adam manages after a few moments. “He protected me from most of it. He kept me _elsewhere_. When Castiel came and got you, Lucifer said he was going to turn his focus on me. Michael told him no.”

                “He protected you?” Sam asks.

                “Michael is still an angel,” Georgia points out. “Lucifer wouldn’t bow before humans, wouldn’t love them more than God. He twisted their souls into demons. But Michael was the faithful son. If he had the ability to protect Adam, he’d do it. No question.”

                “Then what was the point,” Dean asks from the doorway, Benny at his shoulder. “Why rescue Adam and Benny? Not that I’m not grateful, mind.”

                “I’d like to reset the balance,” Georgia says and both Cas and Crowley look at her in surprise. “The last few years…angels kicked out of Heaven, Lucifer walking free…everything is wrong. I want to fix it.”

                “And you need us to do that?” Sam asks.

                “Listen, it’s pretty straightforward,” Georgia trails off as Crowley raises his hand. She rolls her eyes but allows him to speak.

                “It’s straightforward _in theory._ In practice I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t kill half of us.”

                “I know which half I’d like you on,” Cain says lowly and Crowley blanches under his gaze.

                _“Anyway_ ,” Georgia shakes her head. “It’s not as simple as good and evil, but let’s pretend for the sake of argument it is. _Shut up, Crowley, or I will make you._ There’s a power vacuum in Heaven that has to be filled, if God won’t take the throne, a new one needs to be chosen.”

                “Cas tried that,” Dean points out. “It didn’t work.”

                The jab is softened when Dean puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder and squeezes. Then more so when he leaves it resting there.

                “That was one way to do it,” Georgia says. “Admittedly, probably not the best way but hey, trial and error. At least now we know not to do it.”

                “Little Miss Brightside,” Crowley mutters.

                “So, God. And then there are the angels.”

                “Archangels,” Castiel adds. “Seven or four?”

                “Four,” Georgia says.

                “Not that it matters,” he shrugs. “Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel are dead. Michael is indisposed.”

                “We don’t need them themselves, just representations for that power. Stunt doubles I guess. A bloodline with four members.”

                “That’s why you needed Adam. You want us to stand in for the angels but we’re still one short,” Sam says.

                Castiel glances at Georgia before answering, “Perhaps Charlie? You regard her as your sister, it may be a strong enough bond to hold.”

                “That’s a lot to ask from her,” Dean says.

                “She’ll be pissed if we don’t give her the chance,” Sam replies and Dean nods. Sam texts Charlie then, knowing she’ll hate missing all of this, and asks when she’ll be back in the states.

                “So Crowley,” Sam studies the group gathered in the kitchen. “He’s the balance for evil, the King of Hell. So why Cain and Cas?”

                “Warriors,” Adam says, catching on. “Right? Castiel is the warrior of good and Cain of…” Cain glares at him. “Not so good.”

                “Then what about you?” Dean asks Georgia. “Or Benny?”

                “Well,” Georgia says shortly. “It was my idea. And we might need a representation for Purgatory, I’m not sure. This is like hitting reset on the universe, right? We still want somewhere for the monsters to go when they die. And Benny held up his end of the bargain, he got me through Purgatory. None of you have to do this,” she wants them to know. “This is complete, 100% free will. But…I have faith that this will close the gates of Hell and Heaven without casualties. _Sam,_ for example.”

                “Casualties,” Dean repeats. “But if we close the gates of Heaven…”

                His eyes land on the top of Cas’s dark head, lowered as if in prayer. Dean knows Cas can’t meet his gaze.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Beat Up Car - Taking Back Sunday  
> They Looked Like Strong Hands - Bayside


	3. On the Wings of Maybe

                Dean knows he’s being petty and childish but that isn’t going to stop him. Cas and Georgia are standing close together on the porch, heads inclined in rapid conversation. Dean’s standing on the dock, his new apparent safe place, baking under the noon sun and being in a shitty mood.

                Cas had been with him last night, had held _(no, embraced. No. Cud-no! held-fine.)_ him, but now that same hand that rested on his non-scarred shoulder was clasping Georgia’s bicep and squeezing. Dean wrinkles his nose in irritation and huffs. He should head back in the house, talk to Sam or Benny, get to know Adam again. Make conversation with Cain. But, to get in the house, he’d have to go by the two on the porch or circumvent the whole thing by going around to the front.

                But then heavy boots tread on the dock and Cas sits down beside him, holding out a beer. Dean palms the cool glass, condensation wetting his skin. And he blurts out, “She wants to close the gates.”

                Cas shakes his head . “It isn’t the same as Metatron’s spell nor the trials that Sam underwent. It isn’t so much closing the gates as guarding them, putting people we trust in charge of watching.”

                “Crowley?” Dean says. “She wants us to trust Crowley. This whole thing is his fault anyway. If he hadn’t led me here the first time-“

                “You wouldn’t have gotten the Mark, true. But you wouldn’t have been able to kill Abaddon. A threat needed eradicated, Dean,” Cas points out, rubbing his hands on denim-covered knees. He hasn’t worn jeans since Rexford and they’re too big but he hadn’t missed the way Dean’s eyes trailed over him. He thinks it’s worth the trade.

                “Cain could have done it himself. Or sent the kid.”

                “If you’d faced Metatron without the Mark, you would have remained dead.”

                “You want me to send him a thank you card or what?” Dean snaps.

                “Crowley saved my life,” Cas says quietly and Dean’s spine weakens for a moment before he turns his attention to the angel. Cas could have been gone. Cas could have been killed and Dean would never have known. Wouldn’t be able to study the profile of his face, trace the mountains of his knuckles. Wouldn’t have had this moment, or the one last night, at all.

                “When?”

                “Right before I stopped you. When you went after Sam.” Dean sucks in a breath. “I was already weak when Hannah and I were attacked. The Grace was fading, _I_ was fading. She was about to kill Hannah when Crowley stepped in. He cut out her Grace and gave it to me. He saved my life,” Cas repeats.

                “Flowers, maybe,” Dean rubs his suddenly itchy eyes. “A gift card. Why didn’t you tell me, and so help me if you say it was not of import-”

                “It really wasn’t,” Cas manages a chuckle. “I don’t believe you would have hurt Sam, but without Crowley…”

                “I might have,” Dean finishes. “So that wipes out like 99% of the bad shit that Crowley has pulled but…letting him run Hell.”

                “Better the devil you know?” Cas tries. “He’s done a fair job so far.”

                “And this new God, if not you, who does little Miss Know-It-All plan to make the almighty? You’re the best angel we got.”

                Cas blushes but disagrees. “I don’t want the job. Georgia believes Gabriel will be suitable.”

                “No.”

                Cas clicks his tongue. “Yes.”

                “No way,” Dean says. “For one, he’s dead. For two, I am not living in a permanent world of TV shows. Three, he’s a dick. Four, no.”

                “Georgia is looking into it but we believe his time as Loki may have…lessened his angel-ness, for lack of a better word. An angel blade would have no lasting effect on a pagan god. And if so, it would be another lesser of many evils.”

                “If I find out Gabriel has been alive since the hotel and did nothing…”

                “Already threatening the new God, you Winchesters never learn,” Cas grins, his eyes going all crinkly.

                “So you wouldn’t be…” _Gone. Stuck. Lost forever._

“It’s hard to say,” Cas scratches at the back of his neck, a sign of deception Dean knows was learned from him. Is this Cas protecting him then? Hasn’t he learned in the last few years that lying won’t help, not really, no matter the truth it softens? “If Gabriel were to take power, I don’t believe he would be particularly attentive as to what angels were doing. Of course, power does corrupt. The trouble didn’t start until the angels came back to Earth, perhaps it is better for them to return to Heaven.”

                “Them?” Dean gets hung up on the word. “You don’t consider yourself one?”

                Cas shakes his head sadly. “I barely retain any Grace as it is, I can only hope it’s enough to stand in for Georgia’s spell. And…I will have to make a decision very soon, before the ability to do so is taken from me.”

                “So what?” He can speak around the boulder in his throat. He can. He has to. “You either rip out your Grace and show up as Tiny Cas or….”

                “Die?” he says the word Dean doesn’t want to hear.

                “Can’t fuckin’ win,” Dean wants to break something to match what’s broken in him. “How can those be the only options? Can’t you just…I mean, would it really be so horrible? We’ve got it good here, the Bunker and hunting is solid. Georgia can slam all the gates she wants,” Dean talks over Cas trying to interrupt him. “But there’s always going to be ghosts and skin walkers and wendigos. Would it be so bad if you…”

                “If I what?” _Say it, Dean. Say it. Ask me. You’ve never asked me._

                “And speaking of Georgia, why are we even trusting this girl to begin with? She’s got the Mark, she’s got the scary adoptive dad…how do we know she’s on the level, she could be Ruby-ing all of us.”

                _Coward._

                Cas’s face goes stony, a dangerous fury passing over his features. Dean settles back, away, unsure of what to make of it. He’d seen the look before, of course, just rarely directed at him. “I trust Georgia.”

                “I’m just saying…there’s a lot we don’t know-“

                “Dean.”

                He finally catches on. “What did you mean, you knew her from before. You’ve fought together, obviously. How do you know her?”

                “Dean,” Cas says again but it’s nervous, his resolve is crumbling. He stands, walking back up the dock but Dean is quick on his heels, spinning him around.

                “No,” Dean says angrily. “How do you know her?”

                “Can’t you just accept that I trust her? I trust her with my life. I have trusted her with everything.”

                Dean’s hands are shaking where they’re twisted in the fabric of Cas’s shirt. The angel is hiding something from him, something serious and it revolves around the young girl currently playing keep-away from a Hellhound with Sam. “Why? What did she do?”

                Georgia turns at Dean’s shouting and it doesn’t take long to figure out why he’s upset. Sam watches his brother and the angel too, stalking across the yard toward them. Juliet seizes the tennis ball from Sam’s hand and bounds away, waiting for him to chase her.

                “What did she do?”

                Georgia meets his green eyes solidly. “I let them into Hell.”

                Dean freezes and Sam’s mouth drops open. Castiel braces for Dean’s reaction.

                “ _What_?”

                Castiel answers. “When the angels were dispatched to retrieve your soul from the Pit, it was Georgia who let us in.”

***

                “How?” The word is ripped from Dean’s throat, spit between his clenched teeth. The Mark is like an exposed nerve, all lightning and pain. He hates this, hates feeling this unbalanced. Five minutes ago he’d been boiling with jealousy like a teenage girl, two hours ago he was sure Cain was going to kill him, twelve hours ago he’d been sleeping peacefully beside the angel who was raising steady, placating hands toward him. As if he were afraid of him.

                There were many things Dean wanted Cas to feel for him, fear wasn’t one of them.

                He breathed deep, curling and uncurling his fists until the desire to drive them into something dissipated. Cas was nearing him again, placing a cool palm to the heated skin of his neck, a solid presence. Something to lean on if he felt so inclined.

                “It’s got a deeper hold on him than I thought,” Georgia was squinting at Dean’s chest. “I didn’t realize…”

                “You said he’d be okay,” Sam points out, his own hand falling to Dean’s back, spanning the distance between his shoulder blades. “That’s what you told me,” Sam glares at her. “Last night, you said he would be okay!”

                “Sam,” Dean says weakly. “Sammy, just wait.”

                He focuses on breathing. On Cas and Sam. On Georgia and Juliet now standing protectively at her side. He even spares a glance at Crowley on the porch. He will not lose control. _He will not._

                “How?” he asks again.

                “I abducted her,” Cas answers quickly.

                Dean’s eyes widen and he gives Cas a look halfway between anger and disbelief. “You abducted her.”

                “It wasn’t like that,” Georgia rolls her eyes. “Remember, how he used to be? When you first met him?”

                “A dick,” Dean and Sam say at the same time.

                “A bit locked-on, maybe,” Georgia says diplomatically. “Not the issue, it turned out fine right?”

                “We had observed Georgia with Crowley. He was a crossroads demon at the time, but working his way toward real power and he had an obnoxious ability to gain access and information to secure locations and information.”

                “So not that much has changed,” Dean mutters mildly.

                Cas continued. “We believed him to be hiding her, shielding her from not just angels but _everything._ There were only a few moments when she was visible and it was during one of these occasions that I abducted her.”

                “You have got to stop saying ‘abducted,’” Georgia shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that.”

                “That’s true,” Castiel concedes. “It became apparent, moments after…grabbing-“

                “Not really better.”

                “Meeting?”

                “Eh,” Georgia says.

                “It became apparent, moments after meeting her that we were incapable of containing her. Three of my brothers were incapacitated immediately, Uriel couldn’t fly straight for days. Frankly, it was her inherent kindness that saved us all from being killed,” Cas remembers.

                Dean and Sam both take a step away from the girl. “Are you really that…well, badass?” Sam asks.

                Georgia spreads her arms and shrugs as if to say, ‘What’re you gonna do?’

                “As I was saying, we were not outnumbered but we were out maneuvered. She asked what we wanted and I explained that unless we rescued the Righteous Man from the Pit, the Apocalypse would be unleashed, as that is what I believed at the time. We wanted the spell that Crowley used to see her but Georgia said it wasn’t Crowley at all, it was her father that allowed her to pass between Hell and Earth. Then, of course, we realized who she was.”

                “Cain’s daughter,” Dean says, breathless.

                “The mission was straightforward,” Castiel is staring at the ground now, studying the grass curling over his boots. “Torture the girl for what information she had, make a trade with Crowley if possible.”

                “Dude,” Georgia slides her hands over her face. “Stop. Okay, it was fine. No one hurt me, they didn’t get the chance. And don’t act like you didn’t expect that kind of behavior from angels, you know that’s how it used to be. Hell, they’ve asked it from you. _That_ Castiel isn’t the same one who stands before you now, you know that.”

                “None of us are what we used to be,” Dean tells her.

                “After Castiel explained what was going on, I was happy to help. I didn’t need Crowley or Cain, you weren’t in the Cage, it was all pretty simple.”

                “Oh Georgia, you lie,” Crowley sauntered over to them. “Tell them how it really was, darling.”

                “It doesn’t matter,” she growls and Juliet growls with her. “And as someone who just got their speaking privileges back, you’re risking them rather quickly.”

                “I’m proud of you, moron,” he says, the compliment shadowed by the insult. “You never thought to ask, did you, Dean? How they got in? How many angels it took to drag you away? How many besides Lucifer and the Fallen had been in Hell before? Or even more importantly, how many angels had been to Hell _and gotten out._ ”

                Dean hadn’t asked. For a very specific reason: the answer scared the shit out of him. If it was something they did often, he was just another number. Just another flawed human soul that bent and broke under Alistair, turning the knife on others. And if it was just him…if he was the only one…if they’d risked so much, risked Castiel…

                _I gave everything for you._

                He never wanted to know what that meant exactly.

                “How many?” _Why are you asking? You don’t want to know!_

Georgia is stock-still, jaw clenched like she wants to hit Crowley but _Cas_. Cas is lost. He doesn’t want to answer Dean, doesn’t want to admit it. Because, and Dean already knows the answer, when he does, Dean can’t ignore the sacrifice anymore. Can’t ignore what _everything_ meant.

                “How many?”

                “One,” Cas says, blue eyes soft when they finally lock with Dean’s.

                “One,” Dean repeats.

                “Hell is the absence of God, absence of hope and love and all things good. It is suffering and damnation, you know this. It is everything an angel is not. When the gates opened, my brothers were incinerated,” Cas says. “The instantaneous lack of _faith_ and they just…”

                “But not you,” Sam says.

                “’We laid siege to Hell’, isn’t that what you told me?” Dean asks and Cas lets the thrill of Dean’s remembering his words go through him.

                Cas glances at Georgia. “We did.”

                “You and…” Sam pauses. “You and Georgia.”

                Dean curses under his breath.

                “If the other angels were killed, why weren’t you?” Sam wonders aloud.

                “I was shielded, protected,” Cas explains, indicating Georgia.

                “What?” Sam asks. “How?”

                “How else do you conceal an angel?” Georgia grins. “You say yes.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Worry About You - Ivy  
> Explode - Patrick Stump


	4. Callin' Me Back Home

                “You let him possess you?” Sam wonders.

                “It wasn’t a hostile takeover or anything,” Georgia tells him. “We were equal strengths and I was in control until I, you know, unleashed the kraken. It took a while to track Dean down…and then of course, things got interesting.”

                “They very much did not want to let you go,” Cas says like there was even a possibility that Dean didn’t understand.

                “So it was your handprint,” Dean says, disappointed. “The scar on my arm wasn’t…”

                Georgia’s face twists in confusion. “Handprint? What handprint?”

                “No, Dean,” Cas says uncomfortable, almost blushing. “That was me. Georgia was kind enough to distract Alastair and I-“

                “Gripped me tight and raised me from perdition, yeah, I recall,” Dean doesn’t bother to hide the unbridled happiness rolling through him. It was Cas! It _had_ been Cas’s brand on his arm. He studies Georgia’s scarred hands now, knuckles weathered and beaten like his. They were too small, too feminine to have made that impression on his arm, he knew that. But how had Cas…

                Crowley, it seems, has picked up Dean’s dropped anger. “ _’Kind_ _enough_.’”

                “Hey,” Georgia steps toward him. “Don’t.”

                “Georgia was _kind_ _enough_ to distract Alastair.” It’s been a while since Dean had seen Crowley upset. He’d made a good show in the Bunker, all shouty and glum, but it hadn’t been true anger. Not like this, mottled fury across his face. “Show them.”

                “It doesn’t matter,” Georgia tries to point out but knows Crowley won’t be persuaded now.

                “No, if handprints and scars are so important to Squirrel, if that’s what makes a difference then show them,” Crowley isn’t yelling, his voice is a dull rumble like thunder on a hot day, just waiting for the storm to break.

                “If you wanted me to take off my shirt, all you had to do was-“

                _Classic diversion tactic_ , Sam thinks. _Tell a joke._

                But Crowley isn’t joking and Georgia seems to know this. Knows he isn’t messing around and though he would probably take no for an answer, probably wouldn’t have a choice anyway, he _wants_ her to show them this. He needs the Winchesters to know the lengths Georgia went to for them. Before even knowing them.

                Georgia sighs and turns around, lifting her shirt as she goes.

                Dean recognizes the lash marks, eighteen of them. He knows the weapon that did this. A cat-o-nine tails whip with silver barbs on the tips. He’d felt those in his back, deep and sharp. And he’d felt that weapon in his hand, weighty and solid. Eighteen scars. She’d been hit twice.

                Enough time, Dean realizes, for Cas to grab Dean and pull him out.

                Dean remembers the moment Cas had saved him. He remembers being afraid, terrified, but powerful too, in charge. His attention had been on something else ( _someone else,_ his brain reminds, unhelpfully) when the first wave of heat had seared across his back. He’d turned to look at Alastair, to ask what was happening, but someone had stepped between them, and then there was nothing but light.

                And then darkness again, when he awoke six feet under.

                “It’s cool,” Georgia says easily, righting her shirt and shrugging. “Everything’s good. Scars are sexy.”

               Dean agrees but says nothing. If he opens his mouth he’s going to vomit.

               “Castiel got away with the cargo and Cain swooped in to save me. Punted Alastair’s ass to the mortal world and then Sam crushed him,” she makes an exaggerated crushing motion with her hands.

               “Do you see now, Dean?” Cas is standing close to Dean, palm gripping his shoulder. “I told you, I trusted her with everything.”

                Dean nods numbly, stumbling away toward the house. He feels like he’s going to float away if he stays outside, he needs the confines of the house pressing in on him. Anchoring.

               Sam is blinking back tears, stuck somewhere between wanting to hug Georgia and follow Dean. He opts for the hug, squeezing Georgia tight to his chest. He presses a kiss into her hair. “Thank you.”

              “You should thank me,” Georgia says, joking again to ease the tension. “I was grounded for _weeks._ ”

***

                Sam knocks quietly on the door to Georgia’s room, unsurprised when there is no reply. He lets himself in anyway. Dean is sitting on the floor, back against a large trunk, and he’s fiddling with the sleeve of Cas’s trench coat.

                “So,” he says breezily. “That was a lot of shit.”

                “I never suspected it was just him, you know?” Dean says, monotone and distant. “Figured everyone suited up and it was all _Clash of the Titans._ But it was just…her and him. Do you think…is that how he got you too?”

                “He mentioned that, uh, earlier when we were talking to Adam. Who is fine, by the way. No Lucifer hanging out, I guess Michael was watching his back,” Sam quickly reiterates Adam’s stay in the Cage. “He said I couldn’t be helped in quite the same way. Probably explains the lack of handprint on me, if I had to guess.”

                Dean makes a low sound in his throat.

                “I never realized you…missed it,” Sam says carefully, lowering himself into the bowl-chair which creaks under his weight.

                “It looked badass,” Dean says then shakes his head and responds honestly. “I liked it. What do you think of George’s plan?”

                “Resetting the world?” Sam sighs. “Maybe. I mean, it seems reasonable but impossible, you know? It makes sense but…tricky at the same time. Oh, uh, why I came in here, actually. Charlie answered. She got the book and she’s going to meet us at the Bunker tomorrow.”

                “Can we get to the Bunker by tomorrow?” Dean asks.

                Sam laughs. “You know that park outside of Lebanon, the geographical center of the U.S.?”

                “Yeah.”

                “You know that lake that’s there?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says again.

                Sam points over his shoulder toward the back door. “That’s the lake.”

                “No way,” Dean shakes his head. “No, Cain lived in Missouri last time. This house was in Missouri.”

                “Apparently it moves. _And_ it’s in its own little time bubble, like a T.A.R.D.I.S.”

                “I don’t know what’s more disappointing,” Dean sighs. “That you said that or that I knew what you were talking about.”

                “Don’t pretend you don’t like _Doctor_ _Who_. It’s okay to like things, Dean. Haters gonna hate, you just gotta shake it out.”

                “ _Off_ ,” Dean says and then grimaces. “Shut up, bitch.”

                “Jerk,” Sam smirks and then his eyes drift to the bed .To the two side-by-side obviously slept on pillows. “So.”

                Dean follows his gaze and he grits his teeth. He fights back the urge to make a joke, to say anything, because Sam has to know. Sammy _always_ knows. That’s practically the point of him, to know and understand Dean without Dean actually having to say anything.

                “Ergh,” Dean says. _Smooth, Winchester._ “I mean…yeah. Well, no, though. Mostly no.”

                Sam’s brows drawn down and his lower lip sticks out. “Sorry, were you having one half of a conversation just now?”

                “I never expected we’d have this chat,” Dean muttered, running his hands through his hair.

                “Are we having a chat?” Sam asks.

                “I thought…uh, well, see the thing is, I thought Cain was going to kill me. It seemed kind of inevitable. I mean, George seemed solid but him and,” Dean sucks in a breath. “The Cain I met is not this guy. He didn’t make jokes about breakfast or kiss his daughter’s forehead. He was…I had to tread carefully, you know. Crowley was terrified of him.”

                “Oh,” Sam laughs. “So get this. Georgia and Crowley kind of had a thing, right? Which I’m sure didn’t sit too well with Cain to begin with. _Then_ because Crowley’s a dumbass, he screwed around on Georgia with _Meg._ ”

                “Wondered what that was about,” Dean finds himself smiling. “All this time he knew she was out there fighting the good fight, why wouldn’t he tell us?”

                “My best guess?” Sam says. “She’s still a little hung up on him, though I can’t figure out why.”

                Dean shrugs.

                “What?” Sam asks, carefully studying the uncomfortable set of his brother’s shoulders.

                “It’s just…he’s a pain, right? But I think there’s something else going on. Look, and no judgment, please, but when I was…”

                “A demon,” Sam supplies.

                “A demon,” Dean agrees. “It could have been bad. Blood bath city, seriously. I was picking fights right and left, you saw what I nearly did to Cole. Crowley, he let me have my fun but he didn’t let me go off the rails. He kept talking about revamping Hell but never that seriously, it was like he didn’t want to go back. Like maybe he was having fun too. That crazy?”

                Sam shakes his head, brown locks waving. “No, in a weird way, no. I always kind of got the feeling he, maybe, liked being around us. Until we tried to turn him into a human, of course. But even then, he wasn’t trying too hard to get away. And Georgia was telling me about how she got into Purgatory. Crowley thought he kidnapped her, locked her up, and she walked out of her cell. She basically broke into Hell. That seems like the kind of trick Crowley would know too, getting around Devil’s Traps and stuff. Maybe he was staying because he wanted to?”

                “Who would want to hang out with us?” Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, noting that he still hasn’t showered or shaved. “For example. Hey, Adam!”

                There is the sound of slow, uncertain footsteps and Adam sidles into the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah?”

                “C’mere,” Dean stands and indicates the bed, glad Adam takes a seat without a fuss. “I’ve been thinking about the last time we saw you, when Zachariah…”

                “Told me he’d bring my mom back if I said yes?” Adam mutters. “I’m sorry about that.”

                “No no, man,” Sam catches on to Dean’s plight. “We’re sorry. We could have handled the whole thing better, putting you on lock down was not the way to earn your trust.”

                “And me selling you out the second I got a chance was?” Adam says, ashamed. “And all for a lie.”

                “You didn’t know that at the time,” Dean points out.

                “Look, you guys didn’t have to, but you did come to get me, I know that. You tried and the way the chips fell was shitty but I forgive you. I wanted to be mad and resentful and believe what Zachariah said, that you didn’t care. But you did,” Adam stares at the floor as if trying to memorize it.

                “We still do,” Dean claps him on the shoulder. “It’s gonna take all of us together, right? With this harebrained scheme of George’s? So you can be a Milligan and a Winchester if you want and we’ll soldier on like always, okay? If you want.”

                “I do,” Adam says, fighting the grin spreading across his face, green eyes bright.

***

                “That was a dumb thing to do,” Georgia snarls at Crowley. She’d stomped off as soon as Dean and Sam had headed into the house and the stupid lump had followed her to the dock. “They didn’t need to know any of that.”

                “You want their trust, don’t you?” he asks.

                “Why would they trust your opinion of me? They don’t like you!” she turns just in time to see a look of hurt flash across his face. “What?”

                “Nothing,” he lies.

                “What.”

                “Oh Georgia, you know what it does to me when you get all growly,” he’s deflecting.

                “You showered,” Georgia says abruptly.

                “Sorry?” He arches at eyebrow at her while silently screaming :  _stop_ _!_

                “You showered,” she says again, eyeing him. “And Castiel showered.”

                “We didn’t shower together if that’s what you’re getting at,” Crowley grins. “You know I prefer my boyfriends-“

                “Castiel is not _your_ boyfriend,” Georgia interrupts. “You’re a demon and he’s an angel. Why are you showering? That’s a human thing. Actually,” she stares hard at him. Demons don’t have souls, per say, but they do possess a certain aura individual to them. Most demons glow the standard black, faces morphing horribly with that of their vessel, dark pits in the center of their chests where human souls reside. But Crowley, whose chest pulses bright red at the best of times and deep crimson when upset…is shot through with gold. And there’s no overlap on his face as there had been when he’d taken vessels in the past, no demon hiding under the surface. “Actually…”

                “Are you having a stroke? Why are you staring at me?”

                “What _happened_ to you?” she shifts forward quickly, grasping his elbow in one hand and pressing her palm to his chest. _Gold._ There’s gold in his aura. _Healing._

                “Oh,” he catches on and then says distantly. “That.”

                “They tried to cure you, they got damn close too. Oh my God.”

                “No need for dramatics, darling. I’m the same old demon you love to hate to love.”

                Georgia shakes her head vehemently. “You’re not the same at all. You’re alone in there for one thing, honestly alone. Where did…who was it this time? The literary agent? Where did he go?”

                Crowley had expected he’d be slightly drunk when forced to have this conversation with her. He’d been hiding this _humanity_ from his mother but he should have known someone like Georgia, who knew him intimately, would see the red flags for what they were. But he was sober, in _Kansas_ , and of all the people he lied to, she could never be one of them. “Our favorite angel ran a mess of a con a few years back. We had a bit of a fireworks show with this particular vessel resulting in, unfortunately, his immolation. Couldn’t keep the little bugger in so he toddled off to Heaven possibly, though I doubt it. And I became the primary tenant.”

                “So you, just you, nearly became human. It was close too, you’ve practically got a soul, Crowley. You had to feel everything you did, didn’t you? Not just the regular evil but everything…you had to feel what you did to _me,_ ” Georgia hadn’t been prepared for this. For Crowley’s actions to be entirely his own, his actions guided not by selfishness but by _emotion._ “You wanted to help them, didn’t you? After the angels fell…”

                “I put up a hard fight, they beat it out of me.”

                Georgia turns away, staring across the scattered surface of the lake. The wind is picking up, a storm is moving in. She feels the electricity in the air, unsure if it’s the imminent weather or her desire to lash out at Crowley. “You like them.”

                “You shut your mouth,” he hisses, looking affronted while knowing she’s not fooled. “I’m building their trust and then I’m going to kill them. That’s always been the plan.”

                “No,” Georgia interrupts again. “No, you changed plans after the first injection. Hell, I bet it was before that. When was it, hey, when did you decide you were Team Winchester?”

                He shuts her down. “I thought you should know I’ll be headed back. Too long from home, haven’t checked my messages.”

                “Absolutely not,” Georgia looks at him as if he’s stupid. “Rowena is going to kill you the second you get back. You have to stay here until we figure out a way to take her out.”

                “What, exactly, do you think I’ve been doing? I can’t watch the bitch from here,” he points out, making a point to straighten his cuffs and adjust his tie.

                It’s the smirk, Georgia realizes, as Crowley morphs from the man she loves into the King of Hell, that sets her off. That stupid smirk that has never been directed at her, never made her feel like a simpering child. He’d always smiled at her, grinned in amusement or elation. Seeing it on his face again, after the open adoration that had been there moments before, irritates her.

                She’s across the dock, tugging roughly at the collar and lapels of his jacket, before she’d made the decision to move. He makes a swipe at her wrists but she fights back until the jacket gets caught at his elbows and the first four buttons of his black shirt are lost to the lake.

                “What the fresh Hell?” he cries out, stepping around her, trying to stay out of the way.

                “I hate this suit.” Georgia is aware this is a bad plan. Hadn’t really been a plan at all. But the suit reminds her of what he is now, what he isn’t anymore. Hers. “I hate this tie.”

                She wraps it around her hand once and he worries she’s actually going to throttle him but she pulls back long enough to kick at his shoes, scuffing the leather and crushing his toes. He hops back, trying to get away but she follows. Of course, _of course_ , her boot on his shoe overbalances him and he’s tumbling to the side, her grip on the tie forcing her along with him until with a tremendous splash they fall into the lake.

                “You mad cow!” Crowley gripes. “Look at my suit! This is Italian, little girl!”

                Georgia wants to hold onto her anger with the same ferocity she’s holding his tie, but the King of Hell, drenched in lake water and fuming is too much and suddenly she’s laughing. Great, deep chuckles that have her shoulders shaking and she can’t tell if it’s lake water or tears but her face is wet. Crowley fights it too but her joy is too obvious, too infectious, and his face splits into a genuine grin too.

                And that smile, that glimpse of her old Crowley, what could Georgia do but close the distance between them?

                She keeps her hold on his tie, other palm coming up to cup his scruffy jaw, and it’s like no time has passed. She knows the shape of his mouth, the sounds she can illicit when she turns her head a certain way, drags her tongue across his full bottom lip.

                Crowley pulls away to trace the line of her jaw, pressing obnoxiously soft kisses to the wet skin, until he reaches the shell of her ear. He opens his mouth to speak and Georgia wrenches herself away.

                “Sorry,” she says to the lake water between them. It was scant inches but it may as well have been miles. “Can’t. Not yet.”

                “Not yet,” he says hopefully. “But sometime?”

                “I…I just…there’s so much…even more than you realize. Crowley, you don’t know everything and I can’t-“

                He kisses her again, if only to stop her talking and also just because he wants to and never thought he’d be allowed again.

                “You can’t leave,” she says.

                “I have to, it’ll be fine, love. I’m Crowley.”

                And then he’s gone, sodden suit and all, and Georgia knows it is most definitely not going to be fine.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> All Over You - The Spill Canvas  
> Fourth of July - Fall Out Boy


	5. When the Mountains Crumble to the Sea

                Georgia’s sodden boots squeak on the kitchen floor. Her jeans are dripping and she leaves a damp spot on the door where she’s repeatedly bumping her forehead into the wood. _Stupid scruffy accented demons._

                Someone clears their throat and Georgia whips around to find four men, arms crossed, matching looks of disappointment clear on their faces. “Dad,” she mutters, cheeks burning. “Dean. Sam. Castiel.”

                “Again, Georgia?” Cain gives a long-suffering, fatherly sigh while pinching the bridge of his nose.

                “I wish I had an explanation for you, really. But, you know, sometimes you just look at someone and that’s it.” This isn’t what Georgia wants to say at all and it takes most of her considerable willpower to not shout, ‘What are you losers standing around judging me for? Colette tamed you and I’m surprised Dean and Castiel can tear their eyes away from each other long enough to notice me macking on the King of Hell!’

                She doesn’t say any of this though. She sidles by them and sneaks into her room, noting the mussed bed, and changes into clean, dry clothes. She shakes out her jeans and a coin falls from the pocket, spinning in tighter and tighter circles until it lays still. Georgia lifts the surprisingly heavy medallion in her hand, holding it up to the light.

                 Crowley had slipped one of his tracking devices on her.

 _Of course,_ she thinks as she hefts the First Blade in her hand, _pickpocketing this makes me kind of a dick too._

***

                After tucking the Blade away in her trunk, Georgia returned to the kitchen to find the four men were still waiting, joined now by Benny and Adam.

                “We were discussing where to go from here,” Cain tells her. “Dean and Sam need to return to pick up their friend Charlie.”

                “The more the merrier,” Georgia shrugs, unsure of the look Cain is giving her. It’s sharp, focused, like he’s trying to get her to read between the lines. The sentence itself, however, was pretty straightforward. Not much to read into.

                “We’ll head there tonight and probably stay tomorrow,” Dean explains. “The jetlag from Europe is bound to be a bitch.”

                Cain nods. “Where was she again?”

                “Italy,” Sam answers.

                _That_ has Georgia’s interest. “I love Italy, whereabouts was she going?”

                “Not sure,” Sam scrolls through his messages. “She was tracking down that book for us. One of a kind sort of deal, possible mentions of the Mark.”

                Georgia blinks twice at Cain, expecting him to speak up. To do something. He stares back at her resolutely.

                “Um,” Georgia says eloquently. “Do you mind if I tag along? I can be packed in 10. I’d like to see the bunker. Plus I could use the getaway. Cabin fever and an angry father, time to bounce, I think.”

                Cain’s expression softens and he steeples his fingers. “I don’t want you getting hurt, Georgia.”

                “Me? We should worry about Crowley. How’s this for a distraction, guess who nearly cured him?” she asks, pointing at the Winchesters. “You know when Rowena realizes what happened, she’s going to destroy him. Unless she knows, maybe that’s why she came back.”

                Sam straightens, fixing Georgia with a look of surprise. “Rowena? You know Rowena?”

                “Ha ha,” Georgia replies tightly. “Whoops.”

                “More importantly, how does Crowley know Rowena?”

                “Oh you know,” Georgia waves her hand flippantly, like it doesn’t matter. “She’s just…his mom.”

                “Parents coming out of the goddamn woodwork,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You didn’t think to mention this? That it might be important?”

                “She’s a problem,” Cain agrees. “But not an insurmountable one. It would be best to keep her from seizing control of Hell, of course.”

                “Of course,” Dean mocks. Crowley’s mom was the witch who’d been causing problems? He knew their luck was terrible, _shouldn’t have broken all those mirrors,_ but this…No matter Crowley’s feelings for Georgia, would he really stand against his mother? “So he’s just been hanging out with her this whole time?”

                “Uh, no. Well,” Georgia shifts. “Initially, no. She’s messing with his head, making him doubt himself. I thought keeping him here would be best but apparently _someone_ ,” she glares at Cain. “Lifted the wards so Crowley could leave. I wonder why.”

                “He asked if he could, I allowed it,” Cain answers easily.

                “We should get going,” Georgia changes the subject. “I’ll get my stuff.”

***

                “Did Charlie read through the book?” Dean asks, glad to be back in the Impala. They’re speeding down Highway 281 toward Lebanon to pick up some groceries before heading to the bunker. Sam’s riding shotgun, emailing a shfjmills@siouxfallspd.com, Georgia reads over his shoulder. Biting back her grin as Sam types _I miss you_ , deletes it, types it again. Stalls. Deletes it. And hits send.

                Castiel sits next to her in the back seat, forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window, watching the Kansas landscape breeze by with disinterest. Georgia studies him. Not the black, tousled hair or exhausted eyes, she sees he’s shedding Grace at a slower pace now, doing everything he can to hold onto it.

                “How long’s it been?” Georgia asks quietly, not missing Dean’s glance in the rearview mirror. “How long do you have?”

                He doesn’t answer and Dean’s face is stricken as he pushes just a little harder on the gas pedal.

***

                “Oh baby, I missed you!” Dean says, throwing his duffle on the floor and collapsing onto the bed in a flurry of flannel and canvas.

                “I thought Georgia’s bed was sufficient,” Cas says from the doorway, watching  Dean’s obvious glee.

                “That was more about the company than the bed,” Dean mutters and then freezes, realizing he’s said it out loud. “Listen, about that.”

                “I understand, Dean,” Cas replies, shoulders curling forward slightly. He’s not looking at Dean now, opting to study the weapons on the walls before flipping idly through the stack of vinyl on the dresser. “You believed it was your last night alive. It’s not surprising you required a certain amount of…comfort.”

                “Cas, that isn’t-“ Dean struggles to explain himself while wondering why Cas thought that way in the first place. _Because that’s your move, isn’t it, Winchester? Last night on earth…bad decisions…drinking…beds._ “Do you think it could have been anyone?”

                “What?”

                “Damn it, that wasn’t about _someone_ , man,” Dean’s exhaustion returns ten-fold and he wants nothing more than to pull Cas onto the bed and sleep. _And maybe other things._ But honestly, just being close…knowing Cas was there. “You’d think with how many times I’ve gone over it in my head, saying it wouldn’t be a problem.”

                “Saying what?”

                “I’m saying, I mean,” Dean huffs and stands, he finally grabs a blade from the wall, swishing it a few times distractedly. “It’s like this, Cas.”

_Sometimes you just look at someone and that’s it._

                Sometimes they're a trench-coated stranger, blowing into a barn on the wings of a thunderstorm. Sometimes they're an amnesiac healer, willing to drive halfway across the country in the middle of the night to help a man. Sometimes they're the one with you on the edge, at the breaking point, arms holding strong before something is irreparably shattered.

                 Sometimes they're right in front of you.

                 Cas waits patiently but Dean can’t seem to get his sentence together. Or remember words at all, in fact.

                “I keep waiting for a good time,” Dean says in a rush. “But nothing’s ever…you know, first it was angels. And you were kind of… but anyway, then you _died_ or did I die first? And I promised Sammy I’d try but it wasn’t…”

                “Dean,” Cas holds up a hand, eager to close the distance between them. Dean is still pacing, still swishing the blade. “This is unnecessary.”

                “Unnecessary,” Dean repeats, barely noticing the sinking feeling in his gut over the black hole that has randomly opened in his chest. “No, you’re not listening.”

                “To be fair,” Cas says. “You haven’t said anything.”

                “Hey,” Dean says, pointing the blade at Cas in a vaguely threatening manner. “This isn’t easy.”

                The problem, Castiel realizes, is Dean is a man of action and therefore not good at talking. Not about anything real, and not without the veil of sarcasm. He can throw out a quip, a comeback, or an insult without batting an eye but anything deeper than that sets Dean up for hurt. And Cas is not there to hurt Dean, not anymore.

                He’s in front of the hunter in two strides, curling his right hand around Dean’s hip and pulling the man flush against him. He gives himself three seconds to get used to the inferno that has taken up residence in his throat before he presses his lips to Dean’s.

                It also takes Dean three seconds to get with the program before he’s delving his fingers into the thick black locks he’s been obsessing about and slanting his mouth across Cas’s to deepen the kiss. It’s everything and nothing like he thought it would be. For one, he expected to be freaking out because the stubble against his chin is bizarre and two, he doesn’t have to lean forward to make up for the height difference. On the other hand, he’s kissing Cas and that is just fucking awesome.

                It’s at this moment, because Sam is the worst, that his little brother knocks absently on the door jamb, not looking up from his phone to witness the incredibly private moment Dean is currently having and says around a mouthful of bread, “Hey, Dean. Charlie got an early flight so she’s gonna-oh! Oh crap. I mean, awesome. No. I don’t mean that. I didn’t see anything.”

                “Go away, Sam!” Cas and Dean shout together.

***

                “I’m instigating a new rule,” Sam whines when he finds Georgia in the war room. She’s flipping dials on the big computer bank at random. “Knock before entering any room. Or outdoor space, apparently.”

                “I am sensing a little jealousy, Master Winchester.” Georgia presses a button she’s 90% sure controls all water function in the greater Lebanon area.

                “Hey, if I wanted Cas, I could have Cas,” Sam replies, throwing a pleased look down the hallway toward Dean’s room. He gestures for Georgia to follow him, giving her a tour of the Bunker, pointing things out as they go.

                “Over Dean’s dead body,” Georgia grins then wrinkles her nose. “That’s probably not as humorous considering how many times that’s happened.”

                “Actually, that one stays funny,” Sam says. “’Go to hell’ has lost its shine. Not for you maybe.”

                Georgia tries to maintain her glare but laughs instead. “Do you ever wonder what normal people talk about?”

                “All the time,” Sam sighs as they walk through the shooting range.

                “So,” Georgia says it with enough innocence that Sam is immediately on edge. “Speaking of your jealousy, who is shfjmills?”

                Sam blushes. “So this was built in 1935…”

                Georgia rolls her eyes and abruptly her shoulders stiffen. Before he can ask what’s wrong, she’s walking decisively down the hallway and into one of the store rooms, immediately finding the hidden wall that leads to the dungeon. She walks across the Devil’s Trap easily and runs her hands over the table.

                “You kept Crowley here,” she says.

                “Uh, yeah,” Sam shifts uncomfortably. “He’s a wealth of information actually, when he wants to be. We thought, well we were just talking about it, Dean and I thought maybe he liked helping out. He’s done some translations for us. He-“

                “Translations?” Georgia asks.

                “Yeah, yeah. He took a look at the spell Metatron used with Cas’s Grace. It’s irreversible but-“

                “Can I see it?”

                “Oh, sure,” Sam shifts through the papers on the shelves, pulling out the spell. Georgia’s gaze flickers back and forth over the words, then she does something Crowley didn’t. She flips the paper sideways.

                “That douche,” she growls.

                “What?” Sam gets up in her space, interested. “Did he translate it wrong?”

                “No, no,” Georgia shakes her head. “The Metatron spell was under his control, so it was really him opening and closing the door. Technically irreversible as long as he had the key. He started letting them back in on his own, it’s his fault they took back control.”

                “Why flip it?”

                “I may have an idea about Castiel’s Grace…don’t get excited or anything, I’m not certain. Angels are…absolute. The only way to kill one, as you know, is with an angel blade because it destroys their Grace. Castiel’s Grace wasn’t destroyed…it was just moved.”

                “So it exists somewhere?”

                Georgia nods, pacing and not looking up from the paper. “It exists everywhere, at all points in time.”

                “Like alternate dimensions?” Sam scrutinizes her.

                “No, well. Actually, hold onto that idea. Say there are other dimensions, and there are but it’s not important, and this is World A. Now say there’s a…Moustache Sam. Moustache Sam exists in World B. The Castiel hanging out in World B is still him. It’s the same Castiel. It’s a different Sam.”

                “He can visit alternate dimensions?” Sam asks. “Or…he exists in all dimensions. Like when Dean went to the future, Cas was there. But there were two Deans.”

                “And I thought my life was weird,” Georgia says flippantly. “His Grace isn’t destroyed, I think it got sucked somewhere else when Metatron used it as a power source.”

                “So all we have to do is hop into an alternate dimension. Great, and here I thought the Mark was our biggest problem!”

                “The Mark _is_ Dean’s biggest problem. Do you really think you can heal him without angel Grace?”

                “I knew it!” Sam’s grin is threatening to split his face. “I thought about this! I did…I mean, Cas specifically. It’s like inevitable, right? I want Dean to save himself, I do. I want him to choose to be like Cain and not go nuts but, shit, it’s just really hard, you know? Dean is the strongest person I know but he’s scared. I can’t…I can’t watch my brother be scared anymore,” Sam chokes on huge gulp of air. “It has to be Cas, doesn’t it? If we fix this…can we fix this?”

                “I think,” Georgia leans in, feeding off Sam’s excitement. “Between all of us, there’s not much we can’t do.”

                “Well, I for one,” Charlie says, pouting from the doorway. “Can’t believe I’ve been halfway across the world and no one was at the door to help me with my bags.”

***

                Charlie gives Dean and Cas the once over when they appear in the war room. “You look…tousled.” Dean ignores this in favor of pulling her into a hug. “You couldn’t just let the angel fall, huh, you had to sully him up too.”

                “Oh Charlie,” Dean begs with laughter in his eyes. “Please stop.”

                She doesn’t even hesitate, tugging Cas forward to hug him as well. “I’ve heard _so much about you,_ ” she winks at Dean over the angel's shoulder, giddy when his ears flame red.

                “And I you,” Cas responds, smile all gummy.

                She glances at his white shirt and jeans. “Little disappointed in the ensemble, have to be honest. The voice is exactly as described, do you know any Tom Waits because seriously-“

                “Keep it together, Charlie,” Dean chastises. “Neither of you are into each other anyway.”

                “It’s very unlikely that someone exists who isn’t into _that,_ ” she gestures to the owl-eyed angel.

                “Thank you?” Cas tilts his head and looks to Dean, trying to figure out if he’s said the right thing.

                “I come bearing gifts! But first off, Italian ladies,” Charlie flashes a double thumbs up. “Yes. Once life settles down, we are going on a globetrotting adventure, my friends. I mean like Mount Rushmore and Madagascar, not Oz. I’m over the whole real-fiction tour, unless Middle Earth is real.”

                “We should definitely go to Middle Earth,” Dean agrees immediately. He’d missed Charlie. Most of the time, last visit notwithstanding, she made things easy. There was an openness to her that had him babbling like a nerd and not even caring.

                “Ta da!” Charlie pulls a leather bound journal from her bag, unsurprised when Sam snatches it out of her hands. She smirks,

gifting Dean with the small knife she’d picked up in a market. She had his initials carved on the blade. And tosses Sam _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ in Italian.

                “Huh,” Sam flips through the handwritten-pages of the journal, not noticing the abrupt stiffening of Georgia’s shoulders. She wants to grab the book, throw it outside. Throw it in the lake. Burn it. He stares at the back inside cover. “That’s weird. This has a Men of Letters inventory number…but I would have remembered the file.”

                “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean takes the book from him and sets it on the table. Georgia remembers to breathe out. “Food first, research later.”

                Georgia can’t steal it. Not now. Can she hide it?

                Charlie is staring at her.

                “Hey,” Georgia plasters on a fake grin. “You wanna bunk up with me, Charlie?”

***

                They exchange upbeat small talk all the way to Charlie’s usual room that Georgia had thrown her duffle in. Georgia shuts the door firmly behind her.

                “Did you read it?” she says, voice strained.

                Charlie considers lying but can’t. “Of course I read it. A-and just so you know, I picked up some moves in Oz. I might not be the Buffy you are but I can handle myself.”

                “Charlie, do you even understand what you read? I don’t want to hurt you, geez!” Georgia treads across the wood floors, hand pressed to her fluttering heart. That had been too close.

                “You have to tell them. This is huge. Monstrous. Gigan-what’s bigger than gigantic? They are going to lose their shit, I mean…when they find out who you are….”

                “And they will,” Georgia rounds on her. “I promise, but not now. Please. Please just keep this between us. I swear I will tell them both but give me a few days.”

                “Georgia…”

                “Charlie,” Georgia grips the red-haired girl’s wrists pleadingly. “Think about what you read, what you know. Imagine what they’re going to do when they find out who I am.”

                “You have to tell them,” Charlie knows this is wrong and the fallout is going to be bigger than gigantic.

                “Okay, okay,” Georgia’s pulse slows back to normal and she relaxes. “For tonight, just keep Sam away from that book. At least until we get back to Cain’s.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> R U Mine? - Arctic Monkeys  
> Bury Me With It - Modest Mouse


	6. I Don't Care What the Neighbors Say

                Dean wonders if there’s a name for the phenomenon he’s suffering at this moment in time. As long as Cas had been kissing him, Dean was fine. As long as Cas’s teeth were firmly but gently pulling at his bottom lip, Dean was good. Although, he was very carefully not wondering w _here exactly Cas had learned something like that._ And as long Cas’s fingers were scratching at the short hair on the back of his neck, Dean was set.

                But now they’re all seated around the kitchen table, a mismatch of randomly concocted dinner items set before them, and Dean is beginning to freak out.

                Everyone was staring at them, weren’t they? Wondering what was going on, what he was thinking. What _was_ he thinking? _It’s Cas._ How many times had he said that, and not just in reference to the sudden onslaught of awesome kissing, but just in general? _Risked being incinerated to rescue me from Hell? Oh, Cas. Then threatened to toss me back_ into _Hell? Eh, it’s Cas. Became God for a bit? Silly angel._

                Dean wonders when this shift occurred. The friendship one was easy: the moment Cas had sent him away from Chuck’s kitchen as the archangel descended. The loss had been abrupt, it had hurt, but in the face of losing Sammy…well, Cas was just another Dean had failed. The less platonic shift was harder to discern. Did it start when Dean was ready to say yes to Michael? He had pushed everyone away: he didn’t believe in Sam, Bobby wasn’t his father. Did he really know, years ago, that Cas’s feelings were the angel’s weakness? Wink and flirt, get under his skin until…until he beats the crap out of you in the alley. Or was it…

                It doesn’t matter, he decides. It was all these, and none of them really, that brought them here. There were moments but nothing that could be pinned down.

                It simply…was.

                So, did it really matter what Sam thought? Even though his brother didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, focusing instead on throwing popcorn to Juliet, who had appeared out of nowhere at Georgia’s side.

                And Charlie…Charlie wouldn’t care either. Charlie liked girls. Dean could like…Cas.

                He didn’t even know Georgia but considering how quickly she’d forced him and Cas into a bedroom alone together spoke for itself.

                Benny…well, Benny seemed to think something was going on in Purgatory. _Had there been something going on in Purgatory,_ Dean wonders.  _Something I didn’t realize?_

                That left, who, Cain and Adam? Maybe Jody. As much as he liked…two of the three of them, their opinions weren’t likely to sway him. And really, even if Sam had a problem with it, he could go right to…

                _Oh._ Seemed he had his answer the whole time.

                Dean turns to Cas, finally checking back into the conversation, to find the angel has once again curled a finger through the belt loop at Dean’s hip. Still under the table, still hidden from everyone.  He rectifies this by throwing his arm around the back of Cas’s chair, idly messing with the fabric of his shirt.

                “Tell me I can have a Hellhound,” Charlie begs Sam.

                “No,” Sam says sharply. “This one is mine.”

                “That one is mine,” Georgia says distantly, half in conversation with Cas and Charlie, and laughs when Sam pouts. “And she’s more trouble than you think, aren’t you, doll?”

                Juliet flips onto her back, wriggling on the carpet, tongue lolling maniacally.

                “Wait,” Charlie focuses back on Castiel. “You’re telling us you just wandered out of the river and married the first chick you saw?”

                “I wasn’t in my right mind,” Cas explains. “Or even my mind at all.”

                “And she hasn’t been like…looking for you?”

                “You raise a very good point,” Cas says, frowning now.

                “Please,” Georgia rolls her eyes. “That sounds like a Crowley-plant, honestly.”

                “A…Crowley-plant?” Cas asks.

                “Well yeah, I mean, you screwed him over, didn’t you? He would have had people looking for you,” Georgia explains like they should know this. “Like with Claire.”

                “What about Claire?”

                “I mean,” Georgia scratches her nail against the wooden table. “She was kind of a target, you know. Jimmy went home, the demons followed him. Everyone had bounties out for you, some morons even came to Cain for advice. As per usual, demons aren’t real smart. They figured the easiest way to you was through Claire. Crowley just…put up some defenses. I wasn’t exactly speaking to him at the time but I know how he works. He’ll protect anything of value to him which, lucky angel, includes you now. You should ask him, if his mom hasn’t killed him yet, of course.”

                “So you said there was a plan,” Charlie says after a too-long silence. “Something about being angels?”

                “You told her already?” Dean asks.

                “He texted me that you’d both been kidnapped by a hundred pound psychopath and her father,” Charlie explains. “Then he said he may have been mistaken and instead we were going to fix everything.”

                Georgia looks affronted. “I am one-hundred and forty pounds, thank you very much.”

                “You’re not contesting the psychopath part?” Sam smirks at her.

                “Can’t really argue with that one, kettle and pot,” she mutters and adds under her breath. “A hundred pounds. Good Lord. I’d throw a punch and break my wrist.”

                “Is it…dangerous?” Charlie asks.

                “Probably,” Georgia sighs at the same time Castiel says, “Yes.”

                “First, we have to find Gabriel. This kind of hinges on him so I might just be blowing smoke.”

                “Cas couldn’t do it?” Dean asks.

                “It would…” Cas says slowly. “Be a lot of responsibility. A certain amount of dedication is required, which has obviously been lacking for a while, that kind of devotion would keep me from…elsewhere.”

                “Deancas,” Sam hacks into his hand. He thumps his chest a few times, accepting feigned worried pats on the back from the girls.

                “Quite the cough, Sammy,” Dean says, voice low.

                “It’s been coming on for a while,” Sam rubs at his throat as if it’s sore. “Georgia, will this work if Charlie isn’t blood? We’d really like to minimize the potential risk, you know?”

                “Definitely,” Georgia says. “There are a lot of bonds stronger than family. Like-“

                “Would you say,” Sam interrupts. “These bonds are profound?”

                “Um,” she squints. “Sure.”

                “Oh good,” Sam blinks innocently at Dean, who is staring determinedly at the table. “Maybe that book-“

                “Will I get wings?” Charlie asks excitedly, speaking over Sam. “Some of that super-angel-mojo maybe?”

                Georgia considers this. “Doubtful. But I won’t say no just in case. Wouldn’t want to look foolish if you sprouted some.”

                “That is unlikely,” Castiel chimes in. “You would first have to have access to the proper plane, though, were you to ‘stunt double’ for the archangels it’s possible you’d be granted the ability to-“

                “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I like angels as much as the next guy,” Dean says.

                Sam interrupts him with. “I think you like them a little more than the next guy.”

                “But,” Dean says loudly. “I’d like to walk away from this a) alive and b) without some big feather dusters.”

                “Feather dusters?” Cas repeats, glaring at him.

                “Alright, I’m getting the book-“  Sam goes to stand but is stopped by Charlie’s hand on his arm.

                Georgia can breathe again.

                “We’re having dinner. We can talk suicidal-feather-duster plans but I will not let this dinner be interrupted with actual research.”

                “Can’t believe _you’re_ turning down research,” Sam glowers but sits down.

***

                The door clicks shut and Dean’s pulse kicks into overdrive. There hadn’t been any real discussion as everyone had wandered off to bed, the girls were bunking together, Sammy was in his room. Cas didn’t sleep…usually didn’t stay at the bunker at all, but now he was standing casually in Dean’s room, flipping once again through his vinyl.

                Dean is undoing the third button of his shirt when he freezes, grasping unconsciously at the scarred skin of his forearm. Last night had been a fluke, reminiscent of nights spent fully-clothed in hotel rooms. But this was _his_ room in _his_ bunker and Dean didn’t sleep in jeans and button-up in _his_ bed.

                 But if he takes the long sleeved shirt off…Cas will see the Mark. Of course Cas fucking knows Dean has the Mark but knowing and seeing are two different things and…

                And now he’s been standing ice-sculpture still for at least two minutes and Cas is watching him in silence and Dean still doesn’t know what to do. He can’t ignore it and continue because he’s been standing there too long. He can’t laugh it off because in the Entire History of Things That are Funny…this isn’t one of them. And he can’t just take off his shirt because-

                The angel is suddenly in front of him, planting his palms solidly on Dean’s shoulders and pushing until the hunter sits on the bed. He kneels and with no sense of hesitation, and as if he has all the time in the world, Cas begins undoing the laces of Dean’s boots.

                “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Cas tells him, removing the right boot and turning his attention to the left.

                “Wassat?” Dean huffs, shaking his head. He’s white-knuckling the comforter, unsure of where the angel is headed.

                “About timing. Or our lack thereof,” Cas pulls of Dean’s other boot but remains kneeling before him, palms warm on Dean’s knees and completely oblivious to the fact that he’s unraveling the man with his earnest blue eyes and bleeding heart. “There are regrets, I know. There were circumstances and situations neither of us wanted to be in, never thought we would be in. We have fought for and against each other, lied and hurt each other. But in all that, we ended up here.”

                He moves his hands slowly and deliberately to the remaining buttons on Dean’s shirt, slipping them through the holes and parting the fabric. He unrolls the sleeves then tugs them down, careful to drag his fingers against the sensitive skin of Dean’s forearms. The shirt is discarded to the bed, leaving Dean in his jeans and a black shirt. The Mark is bold on his forearm, not glowing or bothersome, not now, but painfully, obviously _there_.

                Dean reaches to cover it but Cas bats his hand away, cradling Dean’s forearm in his palm.

                “Do you think my feelings for you are so shallow that this would make me turn away?” His calloused thumb runs over the raised skin of the Mark. Cas’s index finger is next, trailing over the scar with the same intensity he devotes to everything related to Dean.

                Sometime between the shirt coming off and the first brush of skin, the tears come.

                It’s a silent, cathartic rush. He’s not sobbing or sad, it’s more a relief than anything, as a fallen angel kneels before him, worshiping the hellbrand on his skin. Dean’s eyes slip closed.

                Only to snap open at the first moist brush of lips. “You are not the choices you made. This is not the curse of a man who cares for nothing and has nothing to lose.” Every bit of abraded flesh is tended with chapped, dragging kisses. “You have saved me a hundred times, in ways you’ll never know. Let me help save you.”

                It’s this, Dean finds, as he pulls the angel onto the bed, locking his arms around Cas’s ribs, not caring that he’s getting tears all over Cas’s shirt, this is what fills the empty aching pit in his chest. The Cas-shaped hole that had always been there. Even when the angel stood in front of him close enough to touch, Dean never dared to close that distance because what was Dean, flawed, pitiful human, in the face of an angel?

                The answer was, of course, everything.

***

                Georgia thought it fair, between her lies by omission and her general attitude, that she do the dishes. Of course, Past Georgia was always writing checks Future Georgia had no interest in cashing, so when she stumbled into the kitchen the next morning to the precarious pile of dishes in the sink, she huffed, “No guys, I’m the guest. I’ll do the dishes! You guys get to sleep!” She turns to Juliet. “I’m dumb.”

                A little music, she figures, won’t hurt. She’s far enough away from everyone that the sound shouldn’t carry and it’ll make the tedious chore go by faster. She sets her phone to shuffle as the sink fills with water.

                _“Do you ever stop singing?”_ Crowley had asked when they first met.

                _“No,_ ” she’d replied. _“Not really.”_

                “I’ve got a sweet tooth,” she sang softly, when the drums softened and the vocals kicked in. “For licorice drops and jelly rolls. Hey, sugar daddy, Hansel needs some sugar in his bowl.”

                Once she started washing the dishes, though, she had to turn the volume up over the clank of pots and pans and within moments the dishes were abandoned and she was dancing around the kitchen with soapy sudsy hands and singing to Juliet, “I'll lay out fine china on the linen and polish up the chrome. If you've got some sugar for me, sugar daddy, bring it home!”

                "Oh the thrill of control, like the rush of rock and roll. It's the sweetest taste I've known, if you've got some sugar bring it home."

                Charlie appeared around the doorway as if on cue, pajama clad and bright eyed, picking up Luther’s part. “When honey bees go shopping, it’s something to be seen. They swarm to wild flowers and get nectar for the queen,” the redhead shouted, turning the volume up more and pulling Georgia into an exuberant waltz as the two girls continued, Juliet howling along. "And every gift you bring me gets me dripping like a honeycomb, and if you've got some sugar for me, sugar daddy bring it home!"

                "Whiskey and French cigarettes, a motorbike with high-speed jets, a Waterpik, a Cuisinart, and a hypo-allergenic dog. Oh, I want all the luxuries of the modern age and every item on every page in the Lillian Vernon catalogue!" The girls bellowed, heads thrown back in glee.

                They braced for Luther’s speaking part, each girl dipping her chin to get the appropriate low tone but it was Cas who said, “Oh baby, something crossed my mind.”

                “Oh my God,” Charlie said as her and Georgia clutched at each other.

                “I was thinking you’d look so fine in a velvet dress with heels and an ermine stole,” he said it with such a straight face and so absurdly perfect that neither girl could hold back the peals of laughter.

                Georgia recovered first, wiping away tears as she said, “Oh Luther darling, heaven knows, I’ve never put on women’s clothes. Except for once my mother’s camisole!”

                Dean entered the kitchen just in time to see Georgia and Charlie head banging and air guitaring, passing Castiel between them with gusto, forcing the angel to dance and spin, all while belting out, “So you think only a woman can truly love a man? Well you buy me the dress I’ll be more woman than a man like you can stand!”

                The laughter bubbling up from the three of them was contagious as Charlie and Georgia finished the song, the bemused angel staring at the two in absolute adoration, “Come on, sugar daddy, bring me home!”

                _This,_ Dean thought as Sammy entered the kitchen, knocking him on the shoulder and chuckling along, pretending to chastise the three for their antics. _This is my family._

                But, he knew with crushing certainty, this was also the calm before the storm.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sugar Daddy - Hedwig and the Angry Inch
> 
> Song inspiration:
> 
> Jesus Christ - Brand New  
> Lonely Road to Absolution - Billy Talent


	7. She's the Apple of My Eye

                Cain’s home reminds Dean of Bobby. Quaint, out of the way, lake nearby. The air always smelled faintly of firewood and cedar, even in the middle of summer. He doubted the same feeling of relief, of being _home,_ would crash over him when they hit the gravel drive, but now that his life wasn’t in danger (from Cain at any rate) it was easy to think of the house as a getaway.

                Georgia bounds out of the Impala before it rolls to a stop, still upset that Dean and Sam had refused to let her take one of the Men of Letter’s motorbikes when they left. Charlie looks around uncertainly, taking in the path to the lake, the house, the sheep and cattle lazing in the oppressive summer heat. She breathes deep and smiles, “It’s nice.”

                “For a psychopath and her father,” Sam mutters, meeting her and Dean at the trunk to grab the bags. “You sure about this?” he asks Dean. “Staying here?”

                “George didn’t leave me a lot of choice. I’d rather be at the bunker too,” Dean scrubs at his face. “As much as I don’t like being on their turf, I’d rather not have Cain on ours.”

                “You don’t trust them?” Charlie asks.

                Dean gives her the side eye. “Why would I?”

                “I thought we were gonna be, you know, the angel family. Aren’t they kind of…integral to that?”

                “Yeah,” Dean huffs sarcastically. “Their plan also includes Gabriel. Who is dead.”

                “Hey!” Charlie says, throwing up her hands. “Who here hasn’t been?”

                They exchange quick, awkward glances before dissolving into laughter.

                “And isn’t that just a little sad,” Sam sighs. He lifts the leather bound journal from his bag. “Can I please go research now?”

                “Oh uh,” Charlie stutters. “I was hoping we could watch some _Game of Thrones_ or hey, it only takes like 12 hours to watch _Firefly._ ”

                “Between Rowena and Metatron, I don’t know that movie marathons are a good idea.”

                “Movie marathons are always a good idea,” Dean and Charlie reply as one.

                “ _Star Wars_?” Charlie flashes her hard drive and a smile.

                “Tonight,” Dean promises. “My vampire buddy and my half-brother are fishing and hot damn if I’m gonna let them do it without me. Someone has to show those boys how the real men fish.”

                He’s already halfway to the dock when Charlie calls out, “Well if I find some men around here, I’ll be sure to send them your way!”

                “Only one man I’m interested in, Charmander,” Dean shouts back.

                Charlie turns her exasperated expression on Sam. “ _Pokémon_ , Cas, and saying no to _Star Wars._ Who is that?”

                Sam purses his lips, dimples showing. “He made a _Rent_ reference a few weeks ago.”

                “No!” Charlie’s green eyes go wide.

                ***

                “Georgia-bee,” Cain greets as she enters the kitchen. “Come give your old man a hug.”

                “Maybe when your arms aren’t covered in fish guts,” she replies, ducking him to grab a soda from the fridge. “Those are _fish_ guts, right?”

                “Crowley stopped by.”

                “Very funny,” she rolls her eyes. “Ha. Ha. Ha. How long were you guys out there?”

                “Few hours this morning, after chores which Benny and Adam did for you. Again,” he turns to the sink to scrub the blood from his arms. “They’re just sitting out there now, it’s too hot to bite. Did you get it?”

                Georgia shakes her head, chewing at the inside of her cheek. “Charlie gave it to Sam. I was going to snatch it but they’d all seen it. Charlie read it.”

                Cain dries his hands, studying his daughter. Her brows are drawn in concern, a look he doesn’t like on her. It was exactly this reason he’d kept her out of the game, for lack of a better word. He’d trained her, of course, he wasn’t going to let anyone in his care go around unprotected. But when he’d been entrusted with her care, he’d made a promise that he would give her the life he hadn’t been afforded: free from fear and duty. She’d be allowed to go where she wanted, when she wanted, explore everything the world had to offer. And for years, she had. But the quiet, niggling voice at the back of his head that reminded him constantly that he’d already ruined her, also reminded him that she had a destiny.

                One she seemed hell-bent on fulfilling no matter his opinion on the subject.

                “Are you worried?” he asks softly.

                “Terrified,” Georgia admits and Cain knows what it cost her to show that weakness. He takes her into his arms, and Georgia gives herself a few minutes to be a child again and breathe deep the scent of wood smoke and honey.

                Cain’s soul had been lost to Lucifer so long ago that he couldn’t remember what it felt like to have one. Being immortal and indestructible had been a gift, at first, one he had reveled in. But the years grated in ways he hadn’t expected, until the slaughter and carnage became monotonous. And then like a miracle, there was Georgia, wailing and red-faced, being placed in his arms and he’d been given a purpose.

                He didn’t put the Blade down, not yet. Didn’t stop fighting alongside his Knights. But something had already begun changing within him, pulling his focus slowly back to the real source of the Mark. He hadn’t killed Abel because of jealousy and resentment. He loved him. Just as he loved Georgia and Colette. After that, parting with the burden of the Blade was a relief.

                “It won’t change anything, you know. I mean…”

                And there’s his girl. The two-year-old who would hold his hand even with dried blood under his fingernails. The eight-year-old who traced the matching Marks on their arms, elated that her tattoo matched her daddy’s. The fifteen-year-old that hated him on principle but still tucked a blanket over him when he fell asleep in his chair. And here now, twenty-three and a few centuries, assuring him that he would always be her father.

***

                The journal is slammed onto the table by a bruise-eyed Sam, startling everyone and knocking over the orange juice. No one reaches for it in the face of Sam’s fury.

                “Is this true?” he hisses, pressing his knuckle into the leather so hard they turn white. “Is this fucking true?”

                “Sam-“ Dean places a placating hand on his brother’s shoulder, trying to ease the death glare his brother is leveling at Georgia. “What’s going on?”

                Sam’s righteous anger is slightly overshadowed by his bedhead and sweatpants. The only thing breaking the silence of the room is the steady _drip_ _drip_ _drip_ of orange juice pooling onto the floor. “You kept this from us, _specifically._ ”

                Cain starts to speak up but Georgia cuts him off, ready to carry the blame. “I never lied to you, Sam. That’s important.”

                Dean stiffens and sidles up, shoulder to shoulder with his brother, facing the blonde girl across the table. “Crowley said that to me. That exact thing,” he mutters low to Sam.

                Sam points at the journal again. “Crowley is the least of our worries. I’m not going to ask you again. Is this true, tell me or-“

                “Or what?” Cain interrupts, matching Dean’s position to stand at Georgia’s side. “You’ll watch your tone, Sam Winchester. In this house and with my daughter-“

                “Oh, your daughter,” Sam sneers and Dean silently picks out daisies for Sam’s funeral. They could do a Viking/hunter send off on the lake. Georgia could sing. “Answer me.”

                “It’s true,” Georgia nods, decidedly not looking at Charlie and Castiel because the fewer people Sam thinks know the better. She won’t sell them out. Though she feels legitimately bad that Benny and Adam are watching the whole scene with curiosity and horror, respectively.

                “What’s true?” Dean asks, angry now.

                “Read this,” Sam presses the journal to his chest.

                “Can’t you give me the Cliff’s Notes?” Dean asks, squinting at the loopy writing, edging toward the back of the book to find out the ending.

                ***

                _The line holds._

_It has been so long since I dreamed, I thought at first I’d invented a new type of waking horror. The lack of screams and cries eventually gave way to the fact that nothing was real. The woods I strolled through, dark but not ominously so, were snowy. The branches so ladened that they bowed nearly to the ground. The foot prints I tracked were fresh, spread wide and frantic; whoever I was following was on the run. Not unusual, but again, all a dream. The hound at my side snuffles but is otherwise disinterested in a chase. I expect to find a body shortly but the dream is ripped away and I wake._

_Which is to say, I let myself return from my musings. I do not sleep. And if I did, I cannot let Abaddon know._

_XXX_

_The line holds._

_The dream comes again but this time there are shouts. Someone, a man, is calling for help. I cannot seem to adjust my speed through the forest, being pulled through it at the same rate regardless of how fast I try to run. Why am I running to him?_

_There is blood on the snow now and the foot prints and closer together. The hound whines pitifully as if lost. Or perhaps concerned? Do the beasts feel concern? They never seem to, just as eager to join in the massacre as the rest of us bloodthirsty savages. Would I recognize concern at all? I must, for I am drawn toward the man’s pleas. I find I want…wanting anything on its own is strange enough, I want to help him._

_Abaddon interrupts to ask what I’m thinking about so hard. She warns me I’m liable to turn to stone if I sit here any longer. But if I am still, if I wait, the dream comes again. She is studying the prophecies yet to come, centuries ahead of us, with a pleased grin. It used to be her smile lit up my world, now it churns my stomach._

_XXX_

_The line holds._

_I can see him now. Hunched over on his blood-soaked knees, back to me. He speaks softly but I can’t make out the words and he flickers as if not really there. Although it can be argued, neither of us are there. As many times as I try to move around him, to look upon his face or see what he holds in his arms, I cannot. I cannot remove my overcoat and offer it to him, though I think he must be cold. The snow remains and he has no coat of his own._

_The Knights are restless, they think I’ve kept them stagnant too long. I hear the whispers that I’m afraid, that I’m uncertain. It never crosses their minds that I do not care._

_XXX_

_The line holds._

_Upon feeling the cold on my skin for the first time, I realize what has been happening. It is not a dream at all, it is a summoning. The man is weak, nearly too weak to finish the spell but he preservers. I can sense my disease on him, the muddy black of it on his soul. There is a road behind him, I can see now, with some black behemoth on wheels that roars dully in the night. His coat is clutched to his chest. I assume the wound is fatal. His summoning me certainly is._

_“Who are you?” he asks, voice tired and as rough as the dark stubble on his jaw._

_“Who are you expecting?” I reply. If a crossroads demon is who he searches for, it is only terrible luck that has brought me to him. “What is that?”_

_The man looks over his shoulder at the behemoth. “It’s a car.”_

_“A car?” I don’t know this word. Another thing, a car, goes shooting by and I hide my sudden uncertainty though I believe I know what happened. “What year is it?”_

_“1991,” he answers immediately, shifting his coat in his arms._

_A few centuries in the future then. A powerful summoning, clearly. I wonder how he’s managed it. “What do you want, mortal?” He rises to his feet and the blood on his chest catches my eye. There is a lot of it. Too much. “You may be beyond saving.”_

_“It isn’t mine,” he sighs and the coat lets out a muffled cry. I understand now and I want to leave but the Devil’s Trap he’d drawn with some kind of red liquid on the snow is powerful. It will not hold me for long._

_“I had to call out for someone related to take her. I didn’t realize…”_

_“It would be a demon?” I finish his sentence when his silence drags on._

_“I’ll make a deal, anything. Just keep her safe. And away from here.”_

_“Higher thinking is not your strong suit, is it, hunter? What makes you think I would not only take the child, but care for it as well?”_

_“Her,” the hunter corrects with a glare. “Because we’re blood. That was the point. I’ll owe you. Her mother, June, didn’t make it. I can’t…what I do and I’ve already got…” his voice cracks.“Just…please.”_

_Even as the child sleeps, cradled in my own coat, I do not know why I took her. She is a tiny thing, smelly and disagreeable. She catches her fingers in my beard and tugs with an alarming strength. She has no teeth, only offers a gummy smile when something (particularly my swatting at her hands) amuses her. She will be useful, I think._

_I explain that if she comes with me, it will be to the past. I cannot travel to the future at will, not without a summoning. The man had passed her to me after pressing a brief kiss to the child’s forehead, an action I had seen before but don’t understand the reason. He whispers softly to the girl again and asks if I will meet him here, in a year, so that he will know everything is okay._

_“Where is here?” I ask, 1991 already flickering into nothingness._

_“Georgia,” he responds before I disappear entirely._

_Georgia._

_XXX_

_Abaddon had been a ruthless lieutenant and I regret making her my captain. What she does with the Knights is her business, I suppose. She asks for advice, for input, but I have none to give. She sees my apathy, my lack of care, and has decided I am a lazy old coot. She’s not wrong._

_It is not laziness, however, that seeps energy from my bones. It’s the one-year-old in my care who pulls things from shelves and cries when I return the items to their proper place. It does not seem to matter how high I place them. She is teething as well and has decided my fist or the First Blade are her chew toys of choice._

_Abaddon notices my disinterest. She can never know._

_XXX_

_The hunter summons me at once this time, no dreams._

_“She’s good then?” he asks, taking Georgia who fusses and reaches for me._

_“She’s a menace,” I answer honestly though I would change nothing. He passes her back after a bit, cooing and chuckling when she grabs at his beard as well. She hides her face in my neck, pretending to be shy for the hunter’s amusement._

_“Thank you,” he says. He goes on that she looks well and cared for. He asks how she ages and I tell him. It is in her own time, though she will stay with me in mine._

_“You put a lot of trust in me,” I tell him. “Seemed it made me want to live up to it.”_

_“Yeah, kids will do that to you,” he nods. “This’ll be the last time for a while, possibly ever. I’m starting to make enemies and…well, she’s at risk.”_

_“No harm will come to her under my protection,” I tell him and he lets out a laugh._

_“I get that. I realized who you were, Cain,” he says with a certain reverence. “I’ve been at my wits end for the last year thinking…thinking I’d left her with well, you. But it’s good, right?”_

_“She is safe and cared for,” I say. “No harm will come to her.”_

_It had not occurred to me a year ago to ask his name. I thought him moments from death at first, so it meant nothing. After he’d left his daughter in my care, I thought of her as mine. I held her when she cried, I fed her and changed her and watched her pull book after book to the floor. I watched her chew on the Blade. I caught her when she learned to walk._

_But his name seemed important now. Georgia will have questions some day and I will not lie to her._

_That name is notorious even in my time. The prophecies could fill libraries, we are already preparing for many of them. Abaddon is already preparing for many of them. The end of days, Armageddon, all the death that orbits around that name. I fight in the name of Lucifer and the child I hold in my arms is of the bloodline, my bloodline, destined to free him from the Cage and yet I want nothing more than to shield her from that. There is only suffering in this family, that is the curse, and I have passed it onto all of them._

_I branded her with the Mark of Cain tonight. I promised her father I would protect her in any way I can. There is only one thing on this earth more powerful than the Mark. It looks so large on her small forearm but Georgia doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t seem bothered at all. It is the best I can offer her._

_The sister of the Boy-King. The sister of the Righteous Man. The daughter of John Winchester will be kept safe._

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brother - Gerard Way  
> Red Hands - R.E.V.O.


	8. You'll Drive Me to Ruin

                “This is a joke,” Dean said, dropping the journal to the table. “It’s a joke.”

                “Not a particularly funny one,” Georgia muttered, unsure of what to do next. Sam’s breathing had returned to normal just in time for Dean’s to accelerate. Now they both wore identical looks of shock and a rapid, silent conversation was happening between them. “Listen-“

                “Ah ah,” Dean held up a hand. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say yet.”

                Georgia raised her eyebrows in anger, leaning across the table at him. “You did _not_ just tell me to shut up.”

                “Oh, I think I did,” Dean growls. “You never planned on using Charlie at all, huh? It was always gonna be you. How were you gonna explain that, huh?”

                Georgia sinks back, pursing her lips. “Honestly, either it would have worked and we all would have been happy regardless. Or it didn’t and we’d all be dead anyway.” She throws up her hands like _who cares._ “And Charlie being here, that’s on you. If you hadn’t dug up that stupid book-“

                “Sam tracked that down, I didn’t-“

                “You could have just come back here and talked to Cain-“

                “There’s no way to remove the Mark anyway, what the fuck do I-“

                “You never even had to know!”

                That gives Dean pause and he realizes he and Georgia are nearly nose to nose. The Mark is screaming for him to strike out at her. He wonders if hers is doing the same. “You think it makes a difference to me that you’re our half-sister?”

                Georgia reels back as if he did hit her. Overwhelming hurt crosses her face but she masks it quick with surly indifference. “No.”

                “George, I didn’t mean-“ Dean flounders, motioning to Sam.

                “It’s just a lot of information to be slammed with,” Sam adds, glancing helplessly at Dean. “Keeping secrets has never really worked out in our favor so when they come to light we tend to lose our cool. And I think this just proves that they all do come out eventually. So maybe now would be a good time to, you know, let us in.”

                “I’m sorry you found out like that,” Georgia says quietly.

                “No, _shit_ ,” Dean scrubs at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “It isn’t your fault, I know that. Hell, I already went through all this crap with Adam.”

                “Hey thanks,” Adam mutters, studying Georgia like a revelation. Another half-Winchester. Another that grew up inside the Hunter lifestyle but so vastly different from the boys. What would it have been like, he wonders, if they all grew up together? It was impossible, of course, Georgia and he wouldn’t exist if Mary hadn’t died. But still…

                “So you knew all about us?” Sam asks, pulling the attention away from Georgia.

                She nods. “I hadn’t planned on coming to you until I had a solid lead on Gabriel. I knew Castiel was looking for Cain so I was going to head him off but once I realized Rowena was with Crowley, I got a little sidetracked.”

                “Is she that big of a threat?” Dean asks, getting down to business now, coming to terms with his new little sister                 could sit on the backburner for a bit. “Her hex bags are pretty ferocious but other than that…she’s just a witch. And I don’t say that lightly. I hate witches.”

                “The Mark protects you from her hex bags,” Cain says. “Perhaps shields you is a better term. Like the demon blade you have.”

                “Demon blade?” Sam mutters but Georgia speaks up.

                “Rowena is the spider we won’t see and by the time she bites it’ll be too late. I wanted to eliminate her first but…I don’t know that I’ll be able to. That was my plan, when I was hanging out in Hell. I was going to wait until I could get her alone and,” she drags her finger across her throat. “I made the choice to go after Benny and Adam instead.”

                “So what? Originally you were just going to show up with Cas?” Dean says. “Cas, here, who obviously knew who you were and also said nothing.”

                Cas fixes him with a raised eyebrow and tilts his head. _You really want to start that right now?_

                Dean backs down.

                “Look,” Georgia sighs. “To get Gabriel we need a Seraph at full power, that’s Cas. But to get Cas to full power we need his Grace, so we need Metatron. Metatron is going to be the biggest pain in the ass to ever be a pain in the ass. He is going to require our full attention. I thought I could go it alone, take out Rowena and we could focus. Crowley would shut down Hell and we’d already have, like, a third of the battle won.”

                “You…” Dean searches for the right phrase. “Really have this figured out.”

                “Believe me, I had a lot of time to prepare for it. Some things that threw me for a curveball were A) you taking the friggin’ Mark B) Crowley being a simpering momma’s boy and C) Metatron being trickier than I expected.”

                “Do you know, uh, sorry,” Sam asks of Cain. “Why dad didn’t…why he wanted…”

                “Why he couldn’t keep me?” Georgia finishes for him. Sam nods. “You think I haven’t asked myself that every day? Believe me, I was resentful as hell when I learned the truth about everything. That John raised you two, took you on hunts, taught you everything.”

                “I hated it,” Sam interrupts.

                “I figured it out,” Georgia carries on. “As much as it pisses me off, it was the best thing. For all of us, actually.”

                “How do you figure?” Dean asks, voice tinged with anger. “No, this was dad making his own goddamn decisions, controlling everything. Adam staying with his mom, I get it. But you were all by yourself I mean…Bobby, Ellen. He had options, shit, staying with us is better than this.”

                “Think, Dean,” Cas rests his elbows on the table, casual but commanding. “You and Sam risk your lives on a daily basis, you fight the foulest creatures this planet offers. You rush headlong into certain danger the moment, the _moment,_ you realize the other is in trouble.”

                “So?” Dean shakes his head. “What’s your point?”

                “Now, imagine it was your little sister that had been taken captive.”

                Dean looks at Charlie. He thinks about Alex and Claire and Krissy. He knows the damage demons inflict, the kind he’s inflicted himself. Cas is right. If something threatened his little sister, there’s nothing Dean wouldn’t be capable of.

                He glances at Sam and sees the same grim determination on his brother’s face.

                “But instead,” Cas finishes, wrapping his hand over Dean’s, pulling it away from his forearm where his fingertips are digging into the Mark. Dean hadn’t realized he’d been grasping it at all. “She grew up a warrior. John saved her life, and all of yours, by letting Cain take her.”

                “God, Dean, think about it,” Sam says.

                “Kind of hard to think about anything else,” he mutters back darkly.

                “No, I mean. If Georgia hadn’t grown up with Cain, there’s no telling what kind of man he’d be now. You could have come here with Crowley and just been killed, outright. And if she wasn’t there to go to Hell, how could Cas have gotten you? Dad made the right call here, Dean. It sucks and believe me, it pisses me off, but it was the right call.”

                Dean looks at Georgia. “Were you going to tell us?”

                It’s Charlie who speaks, knocking her forehead into the table in mock-despair. “She almost didn’t have to! I was like ten minutes away from blabbing everything, oh my gosh, that was the longest car ride of my life. But you guys are idiots for not seeing it sooner, I mean damn. She’s got frickin’ dimples and Dean, your hair is the same color. And, in the course of the last day, I have seen all four of your roll your eyes the exact same way,” she sucks in a breath before sighing. “I feel better now, thank you.”

                “Yeah,” Benny chimes in. “You all smell the same too.”

                Dean sniffs at his shirt before leaning closer to Sam. “Dude, don’t smell me. Take his word for it.”

                Dean leans away and says, “Great. That keeps Charlie out of trouble at least.”

                “Hmm,” the redhead disagrees. “I already made Georgia promise I could stay. Sorry not sorry. Besides, I might have to hack into another company or there is a Ren-Faire in Kansas City this weekend. We could just pop over…”

                Dean perks up. “You don’t say?”

                “Oh!” Georgia exclaims. “KC has _the best one!_ ”

                “We’re all nerds,” Sam realizes, seeing the easy and affectionate smiles around the table. “The family trait is us being gigantic nerds.”

                Abruptly, Cain stands, slamming his fists into the table and silence drops on the room like a shroud. His head is tilted, listening to something the others can’t hear and his blue eyes widen, fixing on Georgia with nothing short of fear.

                “What?” she asks, standing to mirror him.

                Cain repeats the message that had just been broadcast to every demon. “The King is dead. Long live the Queen.”

***

                “No!” Georgia is halfway to her room, ready to grab the Blade and head to Hell in retaliation but Cain locks his arms around her. She thrashes, kicking at his legs and biting at his arms but he holds strong. “No! Let me go! It’s not true, he can’t be,” she chokes on the word.

                “Georgia-bee, c’mon, calm down,” Cain speaks low and soft into her hair, barely audible over Georgia’s broken words. She isn’t crying, not really, but she can’t draw breath.

                “I just have to go check, let me go!”

                Dean is already dialing Crowley but the phone rings and rings and rings. No voicemail picks up. “How do we find out?” he asks Sam.

                “I-I don’t think we do,” he looks to the angel. “Cas?”

                “It’s the same message for me,” he shakes his dark head, eyes pinched in concern.

                The moment Cain looks at the angel, Georgia strikes out, tripping her father and springing for the trunk. Cain sighs and tells her softly, “Forgive me.”

                Georgia realizes only a moment too late what he means to do and she rounds on him. “Don’t you fucking-“

                He snaps and she crashes to the ground unconscious.

                “There would have been no reasoning with her,” Cain explains, sighing.

                “No kidding,” Dean leans over Georgia, making sure she didn’t hit her head. “How long will this hold her?”

                Cain doesn’t respond to him. “I don’t believe Rowena will have killed Crowley, not while she knows Georgia is around. The same message will be sent if the King is incapacitated and thus not able to carry out his rule.”

                “So it’s a trap for Georgia, basically?” Sam asks then turns to Dean. “Help me get her to the bed.”

                “What are our options?” Dean asks, locked on when they return. “Can you pop into Hell like she did?”

                “And fall into the trap Rowena has set? She’s cunning but she doesn’t know Georgia is my daughter nor that she bears the Mark. She does know for certain that Georgia to come to Crowley’s aid.”

                “Then no one goes,” Dean says with finality. “Especially Georgia.”

                “If she has control of Crowley, she has control of Hell,” Sam points out. “She could be opening Hell Gates, cracking Purgatory, anything. Does Heaven have any control here?”

                “Heaven has barely rebuilt itself,” Cas answers. “They’ll be on alert but until Rowena makes a move there’s no knowing her plan.”

                “Uh, guys?” Charlie speaks up.

                “I could go the Purgatory route,” Benny interjects with a solid “fuck no” from Dean.

                “A summoning maybe?” Sam glances at the shelves around them, cataloguing what materials they have and what they’d need. “He’d have to answer, right?”

                “Not if she’s running the show,” Dean says. “Georgia had no idea of Rowena’s play?”

                “Dean?” Charlie tries again.

                “I don’t know how we’d even go about getting in without, you know, dying or Crowley’s help. Or…could we summon another demon? Make them take us?” Dean shifts from foot to foot before pacing.

                “Crowley’s been in our pocket for months,” Sam says. “My guess is they’re celebrating. Also, demons lie.”

                “So, so what?” Dean asks. “We keep one of our strongest fighters unconscious and hone in on Metatron for now?”

                “Metatron is harmless for now, he’s locked in Heaven’s prison,” Cas says distantly, focused on Dean’s pacing.

                “Metatron is in Heaven’s prison?” Cain asks.

                “Yes,” Castiel replies. “He was taken in the night Dean became a demon. We’ve brought him out occasionally but he’ll be left there indefinitely.”

                “Then where is Gabriel?” Cain wonders.

                “Hey!” Charlie shouts, smashing her plate on the table. “It doesn’t matter!”

                “We gotta do something,” Dean tells her.

                “It doesn’t matter,” she says again. “Georgia’s gone.”

                Dean scrambles into the bedroom, breath catching when he sees the leather wrap tossed on the bed. He looks at Cain. “She’s got the Blade.”

***

                Cain had pulled that trick on her so many times as a child that Georgia can shrug it off now, not that she’d tell him. It had never come in this handy though. And Sam’s desire to make her comfortable, while sweet, wasn’t that bright because it allowed her not only to escape in the first place, but escape with the First Blade.

                 Appearing back in her cell was easy, Crowley obviously hadn’t blocked her access before he’d been… _taken hostage_ , she thinks solidly. He was fine. He’d just gotten himself in trouble, as per usual. So Georgia would Batman in, save the day, 

embarrass the crap out of Crowley and they’d go angel-hunting.

                _Please let it be that easy. Please let it be that easy. Please._

                She crept into the throne room on silent feet, Blade tucked safely in the waistband of her pants, shirt hiding it. Georgia prided herself on always being ready for anything, the Mark and the Blade were reassuring like that, but she had the obnoxious feeling that she was out of her element here.

_Now, imagine it was your little sister that had been taken captive._

                Maybe she’d be back before they even realized she was gone.

                A quick survey of the room and her breath punched out of her. Crowley was sitting casually on the throne, drink cradled in his right hand, left foot crossed at his knee. He blinked tiredly at her, looking utterly bored except he was sweating.

                “My dear boy,” Rowena says, appearing from behind the throne, dragging her nails into the wood. She touches Crowley’s shoulder gently. “He can be quite devious when he wants, you  know.”

                “I’m aware,” Georgia doesn’t reach for the Blade. Doesn’t want to give herself away that quickly. “It’s an inherited trait, I’d guess.”

                “He’s done good for himself, hasn’t he? King of Hell, all this power,” Rowena pats Crowley’s chin roughly. Crowley doesn’t flinch. “It does a mother proud. Although, the thing that baffles him…has for ages and it just breaks my heart because it’s so simple really…is you.”

                “What?”

                “See, he thought he had you locked away in that cell, right where he could see you, but you got away. Keeps him up at night, wondering, how can he keep you around? He’s always had some abandonment issues, my poor sausage.”

                Georgia risks a step forward and a ball of flame erupts into life, swirling light and heat mere feet from Crowley’s head.

                “That’s it, dear. You see, he focused so much on you. He never considered that the only thing you’d let yourself be trapped by…is him.”

                “That’s not true,” Georgia hisses and takes another step. The flame drops lower.

                “Tread carefully, Georgia,” Rowena warns.

                Crowley hasn’t made a snarky comment. Hasn’t taken a drink. Short of blinking at her he hadn’t moved at all.

                Because he couldn’t, Georgia realizes. But he’s nervous, he’s _sweating_ which…which demons don’t do. They don’t sweat. She inhales slowly just to confirm but the sinking feeling in her gut tells her what she already knows.

                Myrrh and heather.

                Crowley is soaked in Holy Oil.

                Georgia takes three shaking steps back but the ball of flame doesn’t rise. Rowena summons a chair and pushes Georgia onto it.

                “I think I’ll take this,” Rowena retrieves the First Blade, running her fingers over the teeth and handle. “Funny thing about it, well, perhaps not funny in the humorous sense…is even if I do this,” Rowena runs the Blade through Georgia’s stomach. “It won’t kill you. I don’t have the Mark. So we can do this for days and days and days and the fun never has to end.”

                “Why?” Georgia chokes out, surprised at how little being stabbed actually hurt. Her brain must be shutting down because there’s no way it felt like being pinched. “What do you even care about me for? And him, you don’t …you don’t even like him.”

                Rowena leaves the Blade embedded but gives it a twist. Georgia cries out more because she knows it should hurt rather than…

                She slides her shaky gaze from Rowena to Crowley across the hall. He still hasn’t moved but a steady stream of tears are rolling down his cheeks. _What did you do? What did you do? What did you_ do?

                He, of course, doesn’t answer but Georgia remembers slipping the tracker back into her pocket. But it hadn’t been a tracker at all, it had been a charm.

                Crowley is taking Georgia’s pain.

                And Rowena has no idea.

                “He’s far more clever than I give him credit for. Running amok with demons and Knights of Hell like you. See, I remember him as a child, toddly and round. So useless it was pitiful. Fat Fergus, my little Fat Fergus is holding on to that last little smidgen of Hell. I can’t open the Gates, I can’t summon anything and that really won’t help me with that bloody awful coven.”

                “You could have just asked for his help, you psycho-“

                The Blade twists again and Georgia cries out at the flash of anguish in Crowley’s eyes.

                “I will not abide rudeness,” Rowena mutters. “Now you sit and you think about this and hopefully my dear Fergus sorts himself out before anyone bleeds out or catches on fire.”

                Georgia watches Rowena go, cursing her silently before actually cursing at Crowley. “You gotta cut this out, get this charm off of me! Seriously, worry about that giant ball of fire and I’ll take the torture.”

                Crowley rolls his eyes but says nothing.

                “I told you not to leave, didn’t I?” Georgia tests her limits, twitching a finger but the flame drops lower so she freezes. “Not to be a total downer but I did tell you so. I’m going to forgive all the eye rolling because I’m guessing it’s the only thing you’re capable of. No chance you can make a run then? Man, I told you your mom was nuts. There is a knife in my stomach. Oh my God.”

                He blinks at her.

                “Okay, it’s cool. Calm down, damn it. Dad’s gonna come flying in like usual…and that fire is going ignite that oil and you’re going to die. Bad plan. Plan two is better. No, it’s not. Plan three.”

                Georgia closes her eyes and focuses. “Juliet, if you can hear me, I need you to listen. Get Cain and Dean…or maybe just Benny. No, they’ll all come anyway. Bring them here, however you have to. Rowena…”

                “Rowena what, darling?” she asks from behind her, giving the Blade a nudge as she circles.

                Georgia blanches in surprise and the fire sinks slightly lower. Crowley begins to twitch in panic but he can’t move. “Just cursing you in general, you wicked old witch,” Georgia replies brightly.

                “Hmm,” Rowena hums, digging into Georgia’s pocket and twirling the talisman in her fingers. “I thought you seemed a bit quiet. I like a tough lady myself, I honestly do. But I think hurting you will be much more successful in hurting him.”

                The Blade twists again and this time Georgia does scream.

_It was never going to be that easy._

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> This Is Gospel - Panic! At the Disco  
> Seven Devils - Florence + the Machine


	9. There's a New Plague on the Land

                Georgia had a vague idea of what dying would be like. She’d seen people do it. In real life and in the movies. She knew Cain had dealt it out like gum after dinner. It was just one of those things that, until it happened to her, _she never thought would happen to her._

                Unfortunately, it was not _really_ happening to her, she was not dying. She was on a first name basis with most of the blood in her torso but Rowena had been right. It didn’t matter how many times the Blade twisted or tore into her skin, Rowena didn’t have the Mark and therefore couldn’t kill her.

                It did just keep going and going and going but it was not in the least bit fun.

                “Come now,” Rowena says breezily. “You seem to think I enjoy doing this. I really don’t. It’s messy. It’s loud. Dear Fergus is about to burst a blood vessel. Perhaps the trouble is…you’re too far away from the problem.” She makes a quick gesture with her index finger and Georgia’s chair careens wildly forward, her knees slamming into Crowley’s. Pain radiates viciously from her legs to her stomach to her jaw which was clenched so tight her teeth were threatening to give. “There. Are we feeling a bit more chatty now?”

                Crowley still couldn’t speak and if Georgia opens her mouth she is going to scream.

                “Dear,” Rowena perches on the arm of the throne. “All I need you to do, and it’s so simple even you should be able to handle it, is open the Gate to Hell. It’s in your power, it’s practically your job. I know you’ve got all sorts of monstrous beasties hidden away in there and I just want to borrow one. I thought we’d skip Purgatory and go straight to Hell,” she whispers in mock-confidence to Georgia. “I don’t need Leviathan mucking around.”

                Rowena releases a sigh of exhaustion. “So it’s to be together then.”

                She conjures a jar, considering it thoughtfully.

                Abruptly, Crowley lunges, reaching for the jar but Rowena yanks it out of his grasp and the fireball rushes toward the ground, stopping millimeters above his head, the wispy hair at his forehead being pulled up into the heat.

                “Hmm,” Rowena uncorks the jar and Georgia is hit with the comforting scent of heather and myrrh. “Isn’t that interesting?”

                She pours the Holy Oil over Georgia and just like vanilla, it smells much better than it tastes. She chokes on an inhale, reluctant to cough because of the knife embedded in her stomach. She blinks the thick liquid out of her eyes, wanting to wipe it from her mouth but she knows better than to shift. The fireball slowly rises but changes position, floating equidistant between them.

                If either of them moves, they’re both going up in flames.

                “I’m feeling a bit peckish, give yourselves some time to think it over,” she shrugs casually. “And remember Fergus, I only need you.”

                “As the expendable one,” Georgia says after Rowena’s retreat. “I think she can get bent.”

                “Don’t suppose you’ve got any heroes on the way?” Crowley asks, barely moving his lips.

                “Uh,” Georgia needs to move because her legs went to sleep hours ago but she has a _goddamn knife in her gut._ “Sure.”

                “Didn’t expect it to end like this,” he mutters.

                “It ain’t over yet,” Georgia grits her teeth as the oil sinks into her wound.

                “I could just open it. She’s going to kill us anyway, no sense in prolonging our suffering.”

                She meets his brown-eyed gaze levelly before snorting, “I’d rather die.”

                “Not really an option,” he sighs. “For you anyway.”

                Georgia looks up at the fireball with uncertainty. “Holy Oil plus fire seems like a combination pizza of bad. Not sure I’d walk away from that one. I’m not a demon, this isn’t a vessel.”

                “Just let me-“

                “No.”

                “Georgia-“

                “I said no,” Georgia snaps. “You’re not getting off that easy, bud. You’ve got _years_ of kissing my ass ahead of you. And just wait, I’m saving the best reveal for last. You’re going to wish Rowena killed you when you find out what’s coming.”

                “Always so snarky. You catch more flies with honey, sweetheart. Listen, she can get whatever she wants out of Hell and go Genghis Khan on the coven. We’ll play nice until we get a chance to scarper off and that’ll be that. Your unbelievably frightening dad and the Losechesters will think we’re dead and everyone’s happy.”

                “Yeah,” Georgia nods along, faking agreement. “Except that they won’t be. Oh, and the _Win_ chesters are definitely coming to get me,” then she adds under her breath. “Probably.”

                “That’s a lot of certainty from someone they met a few days ago.”

                Georgia gives him an enigmatic smile. “Oh, Crowley.”

                _Thu-thu-thump._

                The ball of fire shakes above them.

                Rowena appears in the room, looking around confused and irritated. Her eagle-eyes are sharp, focusing on the wall behind the throne. Dust falls from the ceiling like snowflakes, cascading to the floor.

                _Thu-thu-thump._

                It takes all of Georgia’ remaining energy to keep herself still and not sigh in relief. There’s still the threat of the Holy Oil and the Blade but it’s okay. It’s okay because…because…

                _Thu-thu-thump._

                “Sounds like someone’s at the door. Crowley, why don’t you let them in?”

                Crowley’s eyes slip closed and he concentrates, muttering softly. Behind the throne, a trail of fire splits the wall, glowing brighter and brighter until with a tremendous crash, the Gates of Hell slowly begin to open.

                Cain materializes first, Bowie knife at his ribs and Juliet at his side, her hackles raised and jaws dripping. He sees Georgia, bloodied and pale, before his gaze shifts to Rowena.

                “Cain?” Rowena says, muddled. Then her tight smile returns. “Not exactly the monster I was expecting but, my goodness, you’ll do fantastically.”

                He doesn’t speak but moves silently across the floor until he stands mere paces from the witch. His eyes flicker over Crowley before focusing on Georgia.  Behind him, the Gates of Hell are open fully, dull roar of the void overtaking the room.

                “Oh, the Blade,” she wrenches it from Georgia stomach and passes it, handle first, to Cain. “Caught one of your Knights with it. Seems she’s a bit enamored of my boy here. Isn’t it strange?  I always knew love was a weakness, but I never realized how much of one.”

                “One of my Knights?” Cain repeats. “Certainly. She is one for running off half-cocked.”

                “I apologize if there’s any lasting damage, but you know how torture goes, don’t you?” she asks, patting at her scarlet hair. “Find the method that works and, well, stick with it. She never broke, if that eases your mind at all. Quite the soldier you’ve got there.”

                “You’re right,” Cain says, voice angry and dangerous. “Georgia is one of my finest Knights. But that may be because she’s my daughter.”

                The bullet catches Rowena in the shoulder before she understands what Cain has said. Dean and Sam enter, guns blazing, with Cas, Benny, and Adam close behind. The gunfire is incessant, both boys emptying full clips into the space Rowena had occupied only a second before but with barely a gesture, the witch disappears.

                Cain reacts on instinct, pulling Georgia from the chair, and with horrifying speed, the ball of fire begins to fall.

                Crowley has very specific rules about his vessels. They were always men (women might run the world, but men had an easier time moving about in it). They were always middle-aged (no one took teeney-boppers or geriatrics seriously). And never, under any circumstance, allow any unfixable damage to occur to them.

                Of course, Georgia has always fallen outside of his rules.

                That’s why, without considering the true ramifications of his next move, he is shoving Cain out of the way and throwing himself over Georgia before the Father of Murder realizes that the fire had been the ultimate booby-trap.

                He’d been engulfed in fake holy fire before, but this was much less pleasant.

                And has a real chance of killing him.

                But someone wrenches Georgia out from under him and he contents himself that, as far as selfless acts go, this is a pretty decent one. Bound to earn him some brownie points with Pops. Georgia would fall all over herself being grateful. Might even make up for all the shit he pulled on the Winchesters. Probably not. But maybe.

                He’s just drifting off when something heavy and painful begins to pound at the flames. He wants to suggest to the elder Winchester that fists aren’t as effective at putting out flames as open palms, but if Dean feels it necessary to vent his frustration he may as well get it out of his system before Crowley is dead.

                “Sam! Damn it, get his legs. _Jesus_ , it’s everywhere,” Dean shouts. “Cas!”

                Cas reaches toward Georgia, blue eyes intense as his hands hover over her stomach. She grasps them in her bloody ones. “Him first,” she commands.

                “Georgia,” Castiel gently persuades.

                “I’ll live,” she grunts, falling further into Cain’s solid embrace. “Him first.”

                Castiel nods, turning to the King of Hell. His face is scraped and blistered, reddened and beginning to crack. The fabric that hasn’t been burned away is melting into his skin. Dean kneels, unsure of where to grab though it’s obvious they’re going to have to carry him out of here.

                “Smoke out!” Dean says. “Smoke out, you dumb son of a bitch!”

                “Can’t,” Georgia kicks Crowley’s shoulder from where she’s nestled, her back pressed against Cain’s chest. “He’s stuck in that vessel, like Cas. Used up all his free lives. You don’t get to go out the hero, Crowley! Do you hear me?”

                Dean turns his wide stare on Cas. “ _What?”_

Georgia is still talking to Crowley, doing her best to keep him focused mostly by threatening him. Cain moves with her, holding her tight until she can wrap a trembling hand around Crowley’s limp one. “We need you, idiot. You don’t get to crap out before things get rough, skin or no skin!”

                “You are not great at the motivation,” Dean mutters to her and she returns the jibe with a scathing smile.

                Cas disregards Dean’s question, pressing his fingers against Crowley’s forehead and using all the Grace he dares to heal him. When Crowley’s eyes flicker open Castiel tells him, “Now we’re even.”

                “Not just yet, mate,” Crowley says, nodding toward the Gates.

                “Guys?” Sam says. He’d very carefully not looked around while they waited for Cain’s signal, afraid that all of his memories of Hell would come rushing back. There was no way he was remembering it right, that much carnage, that much darkness. But it stretches out before him, an endless plain of agony and suffering. And as he watches, the demons are beginning to take notice of the open door. “Ideas?”

                “We have to close it,” Dean stands next to his brother, feeling small and lost. He looks to Cas. “Don’t we?”

                “There’s only one of us who can,” Cas nods toward Sam before he can think better of it and Dean sees the determination on his brother’s face.

                “I can do this, I remember the incantation. I don’t think I could forget it if I tried. I can…I can do this, Dean. For real,” he wills Dean to understand what he’s saying. “We can close the Gates for good.”

                “Yeah, and for real, it will kill you. No. There’s another way,” he skids to Crowley’s side. “Hey, hey you. Close this. Right now.

                But Crowley is down for the count.

                Georgia gets to her feet, the adrenaline that kept her conscious enough for rescue is beginning to wear off but she just has to get to Sam. He seems miles away, the distance between them growing as she stumbles forward shakily. He catches her as she falls, steading her against his side. He can feel the fever radiating from her pale skin. She grasps his hand. “Adam?” she reaches toward their half-brother.

                He takes her hand with an equal amounts surety and reluctance. “What are we doing?”

                “Saw’is in a movie,” she slurs, vision blurring. “’s bloodline. Between the four, maybe…”

                Dean comprehends her plan immediately and takes his place at Sam’s side, locking his brother’s larger hand in his grip. “We got this.”

                “You sure?” Sam asks Dean.

                “Won’t much matter if we’re wrong,” he looks away from Hell to smile softly at Cas.

                Dean squeezes Sam’s hand. It’s as much as a goodbye as they’ve ever gotten and Sam is grateful for it even as he recites the incantation to close the Gates of Hell.

                The lightning flash of pain in Sam’s blood is familiar, the orange glow overtakes his arms, burns up toward his shoulders, crawling with knife-like fingers into his neck and throat. He fights back the scream. If his brother is dying, the last sound he hears will not be Sam’s cries.

                But the pain fades, searing from him into Dean on his left and Georgia on is right and then into Adam. The energy it requires wipes Georgia out and she drops to the ground completely unconscious, though her solid grip on Sam and Adam never eases.

                “It’s working,” Sam says in disbelief, watching as the Gates swing inward.

                “And we’re not dying!” Dean replies, both pleased and surprised.

                The Gates close fully just before the first demons breach the throne room. Adam drops next to Georgia, out of breath and wide-eyed.

                Dean turns his attention on Sam. “Hey, you okay? Feeling alright?” he palms at Sam’s forearms, convincing himself that his brother is okay. That Sam has technically survived the last trial and closed the Gates of Hell. It’s a miracle, honestly. It can’t be anything else.

                Dean pulls Sam into an embrace, resting their foreheads together. “We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy, bitch.”

                Sam thumps his brother on the back. “Jerk.”

***

                “You know,” Dean says as he holds the flashlight while Cain stitches up Georgia’s stomach. “When I was a demon, these wounds would have healed immediately.”

                Cain nods, tying off the last of the sutures. “Georgia isn’t a demon. She’s resilient but ultimately human. It will take her time to heal.”

                “But she will, right?” Sam asks, frankly impressed that Georgia managed to keep conscious and mobile as long as she had. “This will heal?”

                Cain nods, brushing the blonde hair from Georgia’s forehead before excuses himself from the room to down some whiskey and punch something.

                “I’m sorry I can’t help,” Cas says softly, sliding into place at Dean’s side.

                “No worries, man,” Dean shakes his head. “You heard the girl. ‘Heal him.’ Stupid.”

                “Like you wouldn’t have done the same?” Sam teases. “Running into dangerous situations alone and unprepared, she just might be a Winchester.”

                Dean acts deliberately dense and ignores him. “Crowley gonna make it too?”

                “Slowly but yes,” Cas nods. “His wounds were mostly superficial.”

                “What did she mean,” Dean asks. “About vessels? I mean…is Jimmy…”

                Cas scratches at the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “Jimmy has been in Heaven since Chuck’s kitchen. I was ripped apart, he couldn’t survive that and I felt it prudent to let him go before he suffered.”

                “And you lit Crowley up like a Roman candle,” Sam mutters. “But that was fake, wasn’t it?”

                “He vacated before his vessel was consumed. I…supplied him with a replica.”

                “You couldn’t have put him in a Chihuahua or a mosquito or something?” Dean snarks.

                “Mine and Crowley’s relationship, unfortunately, has been a steady back and forth of favors. He assisted us, somewhat, with Lucifer so I was willing to work with him to crack Purgatory. He saved my life, I expended most of my remaining Grace to heal him. Though, that puts Georgia in my debt more than Crowley.”

                Both boys fix him with a glare. “Not that I would collect. Can I speak to you?” he asks Dean.

***

                “Since Chuck’s?” Dean asks the moment they’re alone.

                Cas spreads his hands wide. “I didn’t realize it made a difference.”

                “It doesn’t, I mean…” Dean freezes, sure of what he wants to say but a little scared too. Then he thinks of the determined way Georgia said ‘heal him’ and Sammy, standing strong and reciting a spell that may kill him, and Adam, grabbing Georgia’s hand with barely a question. He has no room to feel scared. Not of this. “I wasn’t sure how much of you was you and how much was Jimmy.”

                “I have been alone in here for a long while,” Cas mutters.

                “But wait,” Dean thinks back. “But you said Jimmy wanted the hamburgers. When we had to get Famine’s ring, you went all nutsoid for the burgers and said it was Jimmy’s hunger.”

                Cas blushes and Dean finds himself grinning. “It was overcompensation for other…hungers.”

                “Oh, really?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “And there I was just empty as could be.”

                Cas thinks back to that day, hazy though the memory is. Famine had told Dean he was empty, had accused him of being already dead. “Dean, you do understand what that really meant, don’t you? Why Famine’s effect on you was negligible?”

                Dean shrugs. “Dead. Soulless. Empty. He wasn’t exactly speaking in code.”

                “You had everything you wanted,” Cas tells him. “You weren’t hungry for anything because you’ve always had what you wanted. You told me that, in your own way, so I thought you understood. Apparently I was mistaken.”

                “What do you mean?” Dean asks, studying the wood floor of the hallway rather than the earnest look in Cas’s eyes.

                “You had your brother, you had a case to work. That’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it?”

                Dean doesn’t want to reply, doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth behind Cas’s statement. Because it is true. It’s all he’s ever wanted, Sammy at his side and evil sons of bitches to gank. Maybe not the Apple Pie Life but it was his life.

                “That isn’t all,” he says softly. “I mean, yeah, I had Sammy and a case. But…you know, you were there too.”

                “I wasn’t any help.”

                “That isn’t why I need you around, man,” Dean reaches between them to hook his finger on Cas’s belt loop. “I don't care if you’re angel-ed up or crazy or shit, even when you were playing God…I just wanted you…here. With me.”

                “So you’re asking me,” Cas trails off uncertainly, barely able to stifle the grin threatening to break his face in half.

                “I’m asking you-“

                “Alright,” Crowley interrupts, shirtless and bandaged, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. “Who put me in sweatpants? This is horribly unprofessional. Here, I’m going to give you an address, my personal tailor. A new one, since well…you know. Go there, tell him who it’s for. I’ll pay you back.”

                “I can’t even begin to tell you how much that’s not happening,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Be grateful we gave you sweatpants.”

                “It’s embarrassing.”

                “Count it as a blessing,” Dean suggests. “If you had any un-burned skin on your face we were going to draw dicks on it.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Time-Bomb - All Time Low  
> Something I Need - OneRepublic


	10. Walk a Quiet Mile With You

***

                 “Hello, Moose,” Crowley greets, shuffling into Georgia’s room.

                “Oh hey,” Sam moves to stand. “Did you want-“

                Crowley waves him off, sitting slowly in Dean’s vacated chair, wincing when his skin pulls. “Stay. I’m no help if something happens to her.”

                “Cain stitched up her wounds,” Sam updates him, wondering what kind of threat Crowley’s expects in Cain’s house. “She’s got a few burns around her neck but he didn’t think they were too serious. You did good, protecting her like that.”

                “Bound to get an earful for it, eh Georgia?” he scratches at the bandages on his face. They’re itchy and irritating. “No one asks you to be a hero though, ducks. Certainly not for me.”

                Sam notes the obvious worry the deep lines of Crowley’s face, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out and touch her, convince himself that she’s real. There’s affection there too, unmistakable affection.

                “You know,” Sam says casually. “She went hell for leather after you. Cain didn’t even get in her way, not really.”

                “Not a lot of good it did,” Crowley says, not unkindly. “What’s your point?”

                “She did what she could, don’t think much else matters in the long run. She must care about you a lot.”

                “That’s my idiot girl,” Crowley says. He squints, side-eying Sam. “She tell you how we met?”

                Sam shakes his head as Dean and Cas make their way back into the room. Crowley moves to stand but Dean declines, surprised at the King of Hell. Sam realizes that Crowley’s fronting is over, the carefully crafted veneer has been stripped away. He’s either too tired to care or he can’t be bothered to pretend anymore. Crowley had nearly watched Georgia burn tonight and _that_ Sam can relate to.

                Were all the Winchester women destined for flames?

                “She wouldn’t,” Crowley continues. “She’s a lot like you and Squirrel, even Feathers over there. She covers the pain. She doesn’t like to seem weak or stupid.”

                “Same could be said for you,” Sam mutters softly.

                 “And worse than anything, she doesn’t like to be embarrassed. And it is an embarrassing story,” a hint of a smirk crawls across Crowley’s face. It’s overtaken by care. “She was seven.”

                “If you tell me you had the hots for a seven-year-old, we’re about to have a serious problem,” Dean folds his arm across his chest.

                Crowley ignores him. “I was summoned to the crossroads by a seven-year-old.”

                “Oh shit,” Sam’s eyes go wide and he stares at the unconscious girl. “How did she even…”

                “She had the book, had the box and the notes, all of it. She found the spell in Cain’s vast library and decided to give it a go,” Crowley leans forward, resting his fingertips a breath from Georgia’s lax hand.

                “What the hell does a seven-year-old make a deal for? A new bike? No bedtime?” Dean asks.

                Crowley chuckles. “She was so naïve, so clueless, I thought it was a joke, at first. It became clear, ridiculously quickly, that she was neither of those things. She knew how it worked, what she was selling, what my job was. Then I was certain it was a trap.”

                “But you couldn’t…I mean, can kids even sell their souls?” Sam asks, wishing he’d been there. He would pay to watch a precocious Georgia explain Demon Deals to Crowley.

                “Oh sure,” Crowley nods easily. “It’s a shady move, of course, but regulations weren’t as strict back then. Hell was not the well-oiled machine it is now, the last King blundered everything up. And I mean everything. If I’d been in charge _you_ would not have gotten out for one thing,” he points at Dean and then Castiel. “And you would not have gotten in.”

                “Yeah,” Dean shrugs. “That was her too.”

                “Touché,” Crowley yields. “The difficulty of the spell lends itself to the adult crowd but it’s not unheard of for children to stumble upon it. Like I said, it’s a shady move and I was in from the start.”

                “Of course you were,” Dean grinds his teeth. “So what did she want?”

                Crowley fixes the elder Winchester with a salacious grin. “Love.”

                Cas has to restrain Dean with a hand to his bicep. “Burns or not I will punch you in the face. If you tell me you got a crush on our-“ he stutters at Sam’s deliberate cough. “Friend Georgia here...”

                “For her father,” Crowley smirks. “She wanted love for her father. Felt he was lonesome.”

                “So you made Colette fall in love with him,” Sam says.

                “You stupid blighter, you can’t-“

                Cas interrupts Crowley. “What he means to say, is love can’t be fabricated. Circumstances can be arranged, introductions can be made, but love can’t be forced. You can’t make a deal for it.”

                “She wasn’t making the deal for her though,” Sam points out.

                “That doesn’t matter. I assume you merely put Colette in Cain’s path,” Cas says.

                Crowley narrows his gaze at the angel. “You’re assuming I made the deal.”

                Dean holds out his palms, gesturing at their surroundings. “Cain met Colette somehow. Pretty obvious. And you said you were in.”

                “So you are paying attention,” Crowley says. “It was stupidly simple. Runaway horse, great big bearded fellow to the rescue. Dolly Parton was attached to the movie for a while but it fell through, pity. After _Whorehouse_ there was no stopping her.”

                “How did you seal the deal?” Dean asks dangerously.

                “The kissing,” Crowley takes an obnoxiously long pause just to watch Dean’s blood pressure climb. “Is not strictly necessary. I really only do it for the laughs. Like dear Bobby, God rest him,” Crowley’s gaze goes steely. “And I mean that with sincerity.”

                Dean nods. “So you didn’t kiss.”

                “Not then,” Crowley winks.

                “Do we really need him?” Dean turns to Cas.

                “We do,” Cas sighs. “Wait until he heals, then you can beat him up again. Georgia may even help.”

                “So what did she trade then?”

                “A song,” Crowley says fondly. “She sang me a song.”

                “We can vouch for her voice but I didn’t peg you for a sap,” Sam says.

                “The sappiest,” Crowley admits. “Of course, the trouble didn’t start until I tried to claim her soul, brand it.”

                “She already had the Mark,” Cas says. “You couldn’t overwrite it.”

                “Not even close and the little brat knew it. Got me into a Devil’s Trap, got me to agree to find _Cain_ a _girlfriend_ and then apologized for lying _to me._ For a song.”

                “Now see, you said this story was embarrassing for her but I think you meant you,” Sam steeples his fingers to hide his grin.

                “Nothing I could do. Couldn’t back out. Brand like that, something like the Mark, tough to beat,” Crowley says to Cas. The angel’s gaze slides from Crowley over to Dean and something clicks into place. “So I promise all sorts of torture, you gentlemen may not know this but I don’t like to lose. She’ll call it a temper tantrum but you’ll want to remember she’s the villain in this particular story. She thanks me for my help and offers to meet up in ten years anyway, said she’d buy me a drink.”

                “When she was seventeen,” Sam says without thinking.

                “Longest year of my life,” Crowley replies.

                “Yeah, you gotta die,” Dean lunges forward only to be stopped by Cas. Again.

***

                “You just can’t help but goad him, can you?” Sam asks as Cas leads Dean away with the promise of bacon and beer.

                “He makes it so easy,” Crowley snickers. “I’d say he needs to get laid but apparently even that’s not helping. Everyone is wearing kid gloves around Squirrel. He doesn’t need that, it’s going to do nothing but brass him off more. Why do you think I sent demons after him?”

                “Because you’re an asshole?” Sam suggests.

                “Besides that,” Crowley replies. “I wasn’t lying when I said the Mark needs to be fed. It needs violence. Dean, bless him, tried to fight it. He also seems adamant about ignoring that his job as a hunter is at its core…violence. I kept humans out of his way the best I could, steered him toward demons.”

                “You were protecting him,” Sam says, stunned. “ _Why_?”

                “Entertainment value?” Crowley tries.

                Sam shoots him a bitch face. “Did Dean…I mean, if you had to pick, what’s the worst thing Dean did while he was a demon?”

                Crowley leans back, considering. He heaves a sigh before replying, “ _Imaginary Lover.”_

                “I’m sorry, what?” Sam asks. “Is that on your scale of jaywalking to genocide or…”

                “He is completely tone deaf, you realize.”

                “He makes up for it with enthusiasm,” Sam says. “I’ve been in the car with the guy for the last three decades. That’s it, seriously? What did he do, drag you to every karaoke bar in the area?”

                Crowley nods.

                Sam shakes his head. “Seriously.”

                “Don’t get me wrong, he did other things. Killed the man _you_ set up, I did not appreciate that. Beat up some knuckle-head who didn’t know how to treat a lady. But yes, I can say without a doubt the worst thing was the karaoke,” Crowley pauses. “Oh! And he pushed me down.”

                “I bleed for you, really,” Sam mutters, rolling his eyes. “You did keep him in check. We thought…I don’t know what we thought, that you maybe were looking out for us. I guess.”

                “Wouldn’t that be something?” Crowley replies enigmatically, brushing the hair from Georgia’s forehead with burned fingers.

                _He knows_ something, Sam decides. Maybe not that Georgia was a Winchester, but he knew Sam and Dean were important to her. And what had Georgia said…about Claire and Emmanuel’s wife? That Crowley had been protecting them too…because he was watching out for Castiel.

                When Castiel was crazy.

                “You have an endgame,” Sam says.

                “I do,” Crowley settles quickly. “And she’s right here.”

                Sam reigns in his anger, afraid to wake Georgia, and says, “Do you think this forgives anything? All you’ve done? You killed innocent people, Crowley. You killed Sarah. You nearly killed _Jody._ ”

                Crowley glares at him. “You’re right. I did. And I wouldn’t have given two shakes about it but then _someone_ shot me full of human blood and I had to live through every excruciating detail again and _this time_ _I had to care about it._ Dear Castiel has been a player since the beginning and you can bet he’s going to be there at the end, so yes, I took special notice of him. They all have expiration dates, remember that, Moose. Every single one. You can fight and die for them but in the long run, I get them or the big man does.”

                “You’re not helping your case,” Sam shakes his head.

                “I’m trying to put things in perspective. You want me to feel bad for what happened before the church, I do. Will it happen again? No. I’m ruined, you won.”

                “That wasn’t-“

                “I’m not looking to tip the scales. There’s no making up for it and there’s no changing it. I want my throne back, I want Hell back.”

                “And you want her,” Sam indicates Georgia.

                “She’s a happy ending that isn’t in the stars for me, Sam,” Crowley says wearily before sinking back. “The point I’m making is this, you’re focusing so much on the big picture that things are slipping through the cracks. You want to be mad at me, fine. You want an apology? Tough shit. Quit worrying about everyone else and concentrate on the real problem that’s in front of you.”

                Sam follows Crowley’s gaze, staring at the Mark of Cain on Georgia’s arm.

                “Guys?” Charlie says from the doorway, brandishing a copy of _The Phantom Tollbooth._ “I thought I might read to her a bit, if you wanted to catch some shut eye.”

***

                “You want Sam’s room or Charlie’s?” Dean asks Benny, leading him down the staircase into the Bunker. He’s glad to be out of Cain’s house, considering it a stroke of genius that between all the invalids in the little lake house, all the beds were full-up. “Adam, any preference?”

                “Whatever works, brother,” Benny answers easily. He carries only a weapon and his shopping bags from the clothing store in Lebanon. “Compared to where I been, this feels like a dream.”

                “Dream, nightmare,” Dean shrugs. “Not much difference.”

                “I don’t know,” Benny says quietly. “You’re doin’ alright for yourself. Seems you got some things figured out, at least,” he nods to where Cas is showing Adam to Sam’s room.

                “Yeah, you’d think so,” Dean replies tightly. “You don’t seem…surprised.”

                “Might be on accounta the fact that I’m not,” Benny drops his bags and follows Dean into the kitchen for a beer.

                “Not even a little?” Dean asks, thumping himself on the chest. “I mean, it’s me.”

                “Well sure,” Benny grins wolfishly. “I’m shocked you admit it but other than that, can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

                Dean grits his teeth and wrinkles his nose. “What is it with you and Sam, thinkin’ I keep everything all locked up and buttoned down?”

                “You met you?” Benny says easily. “Dean, you’re sharp as a catfish sting but you got no idea about what’s going on in there,” he taps three times on Dean’s chest. “Let me guess, you tried for a big speech and the angel shut you up?”

                Dean takes an extended drink of beer.

                “Mmhmm,” Benny nods knowingly. “Whatever declaration you intendin’ to make…you don’t need it, not with him.”

                “He deserves it though,” Dean mutters. “After everything that’s happened…everything he’s given up…”

                “Then what’re you standin’ around with me for? Damn.”

                Dean lets out a relieved laugh and claps Benny on the shoulder, then he’s off to find his angel.

                “Well darling,” Benny turns toward the kitchen, taking in the burners and grill and fryer. “Let’s see what you can do.”

***

                “Hey, Cas,” Dean says as he shuts the door. He’d checked in on Adam only to find his brother already asleep and still fully-clothed, spread out across Sam’s bed. “I was thinkin-“

                Whatever he’s thinking, the angel isn’t interested. Cas is all up in his personal space a moment later, already shirtless and pressing him into the door, fastening his lips to Dean’s neck. The doorknob grinds into the small of Dean’s back and the groan of pain turns into one of pleasure as Cas’s tongue traces the shell of his ear and the fact that doorknobs exist floats away. “What-“

                Cas shuts him up again, slanting his lips over the hunter’s and delving inside, sighing at the taste of Dean and beer and skin. Dean, it seems, has currently given up talking, returning Cas’s attentions with his own. His fingers take up residence at the back of Cas’s skull where he can stroke through the short hair, digging his nails in when Cas nips at his bottom lip.

                The angel’s fingers are busy, quickly relieving Dean of his button-up before sliding under the shirt. It’s over Dean’s head and gone and he doesn’t care because he’s got a shirtless angel against him. The world could end and he wouldn’t notice.

                It probably was, actually.

                This was probably one of the signs.

                He gathers enough of his thoughts to push back on Cas’s shoulders, earning a displeased grunt and Cas’s renewed attention to his chest. “Hold up, hold uh-oh, _Cas_ , just…damn it…”

                Its feeling Cas grin against his stomach that has Dean pulling the angel up by his shoulders and shaking a finger in his face. “Whoa there, tiger.”

                “Dean,” Cas slaps his hand away then rethinks it and places them on his own belt, deftly undoing Dean’s.

                _I did try,_ Dean thinks as he unbuckles Cas’s belt and it’s good Cas is so close because he nearly collapses when Cas takes him in hand. _No! Gotta try again. C’mon._

                “Hey, hey, let’s just _-oh damn-_ where did you learn that, you fucking angel?” he grinds out, embarrassingly close to losing it and they’ve barely started. At least he hopes they’ve barely started. “Damn it!” he pulls Cas’s hand out of his pants, adamant that the whine did not come from him. He turns them around, slamming Cas into the door. Cas’s blue eyes are devastating as he stares up at Dean. His lips are spit-slick and swollen and it’s hardly Dean’s fault if he latches on for just a few seconds, minutes…

                “Fuck,” Dean pulls away, palming Cas’s neck and the tattoo on his side. “What is happening?”

                “I thought that was obvious,” Cas says roughly.

                “No, I mean,” Dean doesn’t know what he means. He’s proud of the fact that he managed half a sentence, the way Cas is watching him. Like he’s going to devour him and is deciding where to start. “What I mean is…you’re supposed to be…shy and nervous and-and _Cas, I can’t talk to you with your hand in my pants.”_

                “You’re doing fine,” Cas says wetly against Dean’s neck. “Keep going. If you’re still coherent, I must be doing something wrong.”

                “No you are fucking not,” Dean drops his eyes closed but it heightens the sense of _touch_ and he has to open them again. It doesn’t help. “Who are you? I was supposed to…seduce you…and…and _Cas!_ ”

                Dean’s spent and boneless, leaning heavily on Cas and hoping his brain doesn’t burn up on reentry.

                “You can still seduce me. We’ve got time,” Cas lies and bites down the rush of despair. They don’t have time. They never have. Cas had lived millennia without Dean, waiting for him, how could it possibly be fair that their time together be measured in a handful of years?

                “Where’d you go?” Dean asks, noticing Cas has eased up on the brutal assault, shifting into loving strokes, slow and easy.

                “I’m right here,” Cas tells him. “I’m right here and this is where I’m going to stay.”

                “You bet your sweet feather dusters you are,” Dean mutters, dropping to his knees to return the favor.

                “I’m staying here,” Cas says.

                But Dean thinks it kind of sounds like goodbye.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Always - Panic! At the Disco  
> Archers - Brand New


	11. You Built My Hopes So High

                “’They’re shouting for you,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I could never have done it,’ he objected, ‘without everyone else’s help.’ ‘That may be true,’ said Reason gravely, ‘but you had the courage to try; and what you can do is often simply a matter of what you will do.’” Charlie looks up. “Well hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

                “Everyone make it okay?” Georgia slurs groggily and rubs her eyes. “Did someone grab the Blade? The Gates are shut?”

                “Rumor has it,” Charlie tells her. “Cain has the Blade. Technically Sam completed all the trials: killed a Hellhound, released an innocent soul to Heaven, and cured a demon.”

                A rush of relieved breath puffs out of Georgia as she sinks further into the pillows.

                “You weren’t sure?” Charlie asks. “That was a ballsy move for uncertainty.”

                “Sam didn’t cure Crowley, not all the way, but he did cure Dean. The power was dormant, I guess, at least I’d hoped it was. As far as the ultimate sacrifice mumbo-jumbo, I think that much power would have burned out any one human, even a giant one. But between the four of us,” Georgia sighs. “I wasn’t sure but there weren’t any other options either.”

                “So Hell is shut down? For good?”

                “For now,” Georgia corrects. “Crowley locked the door behind him. Rowena shouldn’t be able to get in, not to anything useful. I hope. Everything tastes like cotton. Am I on drugs?”

                Charlie shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

                “Oh good,” Georgia says. “Hey, can you hack into Sam’s email for me?”

                “Random but I’ll roll with it,” Charlie returns moments later with her laptop. “The Wi-Fi here is amazing, seriously. I thought my whole Oz adventure would kind of burn me out on Internet but I was wrong, Internet is awesome. What are we looking for?”

                “I need to send an email to…Jody?” she tries.

                “The sheriff?” Charlie asks.

***

                The bed is empty again when Dean wakes, his face pressed into the pillow so hard he has to blink spots from his vision. He eyes the rumpled sheets, the comforter thrown to the floor in exchange for sharing body heat, the tell-tale trail of clothes leading from the door to the desk to the bed.

                He sees Cas’s trench coat thrown over the chair and his heart seizes.

                _So. That happened._

                He waits for the embarrassment, the regret. Nothing. The obvious hickeys on his chest and stomach brought nothing more than a blush, the memory of how they’d gotten there still sharp. He stretches languidly like a big cat, joints popping and unfamiliar aches painting a deeper crimson on his cheeks.

                _“Over,” Cas’s growl, gentle but commanding._

_“No,” Dean’s reply, whispered into a stubbled jaw. “Like this. Need to see you.”_

Dean wipes his hand across his face, willing the flush to go away but knowing while he has a smile like a jack-o-lantern it isn’t going to happen. “Get yourself under control, Winchester,” he mutters into his hands. “Stop smiling like a-“

                “Like a what?” Cas asks, brows drawn and head tilted. He’s fresh from the shower, a pair of Dean’s jeans hang low on his hips and the white shirt sticks to his damp skin. He finger combs his hair to the side, meticulously patting at the cow-lick in the back.

                “Fool?” Dean’s voice is muffled. “Idiot?”

                “Those are decidedly…not good things.”

                “No, no Cas, I’m…” he searches for a word. “Giddy? No. Like dizzy but a good dizzy.”

                “Happy?” Cas asks, smiling as Dean approaches him.

                Dean nods solemnly before grinning and pressing a kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. “That’s it, I’m happy.”

                “Charlie called, Georgia is awake,” Cas tells him, still messing with the back of his hair.

                Dean squints at the black hair like it has personally offended him and then runs his fingers through it until it’s appropriately messy, spikes akimbo. “There.”

                “Dean,” Cas sighs. “I _just_ got it under control.”

                 “Yeah,” Dean slips by him into the bathroom. “And I fixed it.”

***

                “I think it looks like a rhino,” Georgia says.

                “Something big, definitely,” Charlie agrees. “Hippo maybe?”

                Sam taps on his jaw and tilts his head. “I keep seeing a pelican.”

                “Juliet,” Cain says, swiping at the Hellhound. “Get your face out of there. You are not helpful.” The hound rolls over, gluing herself to Georgia’s side while Cain changes Georgia’s bandages. “It’s an ox.”

                “Is this something we should all be discussing?” Dean asks from the doorway, Cas at his shoulder.

                “The scar on Georgia’s stomach, we’re deciding what it looks like,” Sam tells him as everyone shuffles into the room, falling into chairs or leaning against desks and walls.

                Dean shifts around Cain to check out the wound, sucking in a breath at how painful it looks. “Well,” he lies tightly. “That’s not so bad.”

                Georgia smirks at him, seeing through his lie. It’s one of the worst wounds she’s ever gotten, including the lash marks on her back. “Scars are sexy.”

                “Doesn’t mean you should run off and start a collection,” Dean admonishes.

                “That sounds like a challenge,” Georgia full on grins at him, dimples evident in her pale face. “Worried I’ll end up with more than you? Defending your place of honor as the sexiest Winchester?”

                “I keep all my scars emotional, George,” Dean ruffles her hair before pointing out that she needs a shower. Georgia rakes through her greasy hair and wrinkles her nose at him.

                Then she squints at his chest, observing his soul is shot through with even more gold.

                “Also,” Sam chimes in. “I’m the sexiest Winchester.”

                “Objection,” Dean and Adam say as one.

                “Oh what grounds?” Sam asks.

                “Uh, blatant lying and wrongness?” Dean points out. “The Half-chesters don’t get to vote and I’m oldest, so I’m right.”

                Crowley sidles into the room, drawn by the sounds of banter. “Half-chesters?” he asks uncertainly, glancing between Dean and Georgia.

                Georgia grimaces.

                “You’re looking a lot better,” Dean says, noting the lack of burns on Crowley’s face and the fact that he’s wearing a goddamn suit again.

                “Slept it off,” Crowley tells him. “Georgia?”

                “So, funny story…” Georgia starts but Dean punches Crowley in the face, knocking him to the floor. Castiel helps him upright just in time for Sam to take a shot. Crowley remains seated this time, holding his bloody nose.

                “That’s for dicking around on our little sister,” Sam says icily.

                “I could have done that myself,” Georgia points out.

                “Not without pulling some stitches,” Cain says. “You can take a shot later. With a shotgun, if you’d like.”

                “You’re the best dad ever,” Georgia tugs affectionately at his beard. “Can we talk business now or do you two need to go a few more rounds?”

                “I’m not hitting him when he’s down,” Dean says. “I can wait until he stands back up.”

                “Thad,” Crowley snuffles. “Is information I culd hab used a lot earlier.”

                “In my defense,” Georgia explains airily. “You didn’t ask. Thoughts on Metatron?”

                “Dick won’t talk, we tried that route already. He sputtered about the river ending at the source, laughed a lot. Cas?” Dean turns.

                “While I agree questioning him is a good idea, it will be difficult. Even with Hannah speaking on our behalf, the angels were not pleased with the state Metatron was returned in,” he offers Dean an apologetic head tilt. “Convincing them to hand him over again may present a challenge.”

                “I swear not to stab him,” Dean says then amends. “I will try my best.”

                “Uh, no. Bad idea,” Georgia interrupts. “Haven’t you seen an angel go kablooie?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says, not understanding.

                “Yeah,” Georgia echoes. “That big explosion? That’s the angel’s Grace whooshing away like a nuke. Anything close gets burned up. And that’s just normal things, not even demonic things,” she nods at the Mark.

                “What do you mean?”

                “There’s no telling what it could do to you, or us,” she indicates herself and Cain. “Besides being blown to itty-bitty pieces, that’s pretty much a guarantee. So if we can get him, no stabbing him.”

                “I can’t guarantee that they’ll release him to me,” Cas says.

“Can you try?” Sam asks.

                “Of course, but there will most likely be stipulations.”

                “Like what?” Dean asks.

                “Like,” Cas replies. “You not being there.”

                “Non-negotiable. No. That douchebag has info on your Grace and we’re going to get it, I don’t care how much he bleeds.”

                “You see why the angels may be unsure of letting us interrogate him.”

                “Dean,” Cain stands. “You aren’t the only one capable of retrieving information.”

                “Angel blades?” Georgia asks. “Holy Oil, definitely, if we can get more. Crowley, what do you put in those bullets?”

                “George,” Dean says softly. “You’re gonna sit this one out until we know you’re tip top.”

                “Dean,” she replies in the same tone. “Worry about yourself. Metatron doesn’t need to know I’m hurt. Besides once he sees us, he’s gonna sing like a…sparrow…or like a robin. Some kind of singy bird.” She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, grabs some clothes and slips toward the bathroom.

                “So you’re just…” Sam sputters. “You’re just on board with torturing an angel?”

                “Oh yeah,” Georgia says. “I’m aces at torture.”

***

                “I am having a terrible sense of déjà vu,” Metatron says, clanking his shackles and staring around the Men of Letters dungeon. He notices that the blood spatter he’d left behind has been cleaned up. “Not that I don’t like the walk-abouts but would it kill you to take me somewhere new?” he grins at Dean. “I suppose it might…kill you.”

                “Lotta talk from the man tied to the chair,” Dean leans against the table, hands clasped in front of him. “Yet nothing I want to hear.”

                “Sorry,” Metatron says, not sorry at all. “What was the question?”

                “We’re giving you the opportunity,” Sam’s tone is harsh. “To make things easier on yourself.”

                “We want to know about Cas’s Grace,” Dean keeps his voice even but the way Metatron’s eyes narrow, it’s obvious the angel already knows. Probably doing that freaky mind-reading crap that Cas used to do.

                “You don’t like him like this?” Metatron nods to the corner where Cas has his arms crossed over his chest. “A little more human, a little more on your level. Not completely, I mean, you’re one bad day from Demonville but close.”

                “You’re right to worry about me,” Dean says, shoving himself away from the table to pace dangerously in front of the angel. “I am having a bad day. Bad week. Bad…decade. I’m liable to lose it any second,” Dean hefts an angel blade in his hand. “And you can bet it wouldn’t be fun for you if I did.”

                “I’m trembling in my straightjacket,” Metatron shrugs, not worried in the least. “You hand me back roughed up, I think Castiel will find his welcome not so warm any more. This is all so predictable, you realize. Just no creativity at all. Wait, wait, let me guess. Dean Bad-Cop Winchester was going to hit me and when I refused to talk his daring guardian angel swoops in, forcing him from the room while Dean shouts apeish and unintelligently at the handsome angel bound to the chair. Enter Sam Puppy-Eyes Winchester who pleads that he just wants to save his brother, and please _please_ won’t I help? If your plan is to appeal to my soft side, I should warn you, I don’t have one.”

                Dean nods, bottom lip pouting out while he considers Metatron’s words. “That is a pretty piss-poor plan, you’re right. Maybe we should scrap this whole thing,” he shrugs. “Guys?”

                “Well, I could hit him,” Sam proposes. “Switch things up?”

                “Centuries and centuries of methodical planning and design and it comes down to you three,” Metatron shakes his head, disappointed. “Flailing your arms and shouting. It’s just so…expected. Trite, even.”

                “I suppose you could do better?” Castiel asks.

                “Could. Have. Am.” Metatron agrees. “You need a good plot twist.”

                “Right again,” Dean smiles and it is not in any way nice. “How about this?”

                He snaps and the dungeon dissolves, peeling away at the edges to reveal Cain’s living room. The furniture is pushed back, a circle of unlit Holy Oil rings the chair Metatron is still chained to. He shifts around, taking in the book cases and wards before his eyes fall on the two people he was carefully trying to ignore.

                Cain is bigger than he remembers, shock of salt and pepper hair and beard making him look built more for a fishing boat than the cramped living room. Georgia blinks lazily at Metatron, idly sharpening the First Blade on a whetstone.

                “I don’t know that this is the right choice for your characters,” Metatron says uneasily. “Perhaps a redraft?”

                “Nah,” Dean replies. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

                Georgia waits until they flank Metatron to pass Cain the Blade inches from his face, Metatron’s eyes follow it, watering with worry.

                “Oh,” Metatron scoffs, recovering himself. “I know that the other angels are stupid but you have to know this won’t escape their notice. Cain suddenly in the picture, really?”

                Dean holds out his palms. “Hey, we just wanted to chat. We didn’t know Cain was after you. We did everything we could to get you but he’s a slippery fish that Father of Murder.”

                “And what could he want with me?” Metatron asks.

                “You’ll find,” Cain says, staying just out of Metatron’s periphery, heightening his unease. “People rarely ask why I do things. I’m a demon. I’m a monster. I’m a menace. The _why_ just isn’t important.”

                Georgia and Cain take turns rattling metal and clanking objects on the work table behind Metatron. There’s nothing dangerous on it, besides maybe the butter knife. Georgia digs a fork against the table and drags it, metal squealing. Whatever is going through Metatron’s head is worse than anything they could think up themselves.

                Still, she retrieves the Blade from Cain and dribbles Holy Oil over it, circling Metatron so he can see everything now. “I don’t want to worry you,” she tells him. “But the weight has been off on this thing. I’ve usually got a pretty steady hand but, you know. And anyway, you have two eyes. And more than enough fingers.”

                Metatron shies away from her, looking to Dean. “They’ll still know you’re working with Cain.”

                “But he’s working with me,” Crowley says, joining them from the kitchen. He stands next to Castiel, the lack of distance implies familiarity. A sense of fraternity that clearly states they’re in this together. “Did you like my illusion? Not everything my mother taught me was useless.”

                “The ex-King of Hell,” Metatron nods, slowly coming to terms with how fucked he is. “That I did not see coming."

                “If anyone’s peeping, the Winchesters and Castiel aren’t even here,” Crowley waves, making them blink in an out of existence. “They’re researching tracking spells, doing their Boy Scout best to find their least favorite angel. But Cain and I, see, we’re a bit put out. The Gates to Hell have been shut and we’re looking to even the score.”

                “If you can find another angel ass over teakettle for a human, you can board ‘em up for all I care,” Metatron hisses and it takes every ounce of Dean’s power not to gape at Cas. He knew, of course, that Castiel was the special ingredient for Metatron’s anti-angel spell. He just didn’t know why. Not that it should surprise him, considering the other components. “In fact, you make sure I’m on the far side and I’ll write it down myself.”

                “I took a look at your little doodle,” Georgia says patronizingly. “And while there’s a certain…romance…to your spell, I think that’s just you being a dick. I think all it really takes is angel Grace and guess what? We got a powered up angel right here and even better,” she holds up an empty vial. “Crowley is _very_ good at Grace-ectomies.”

                “What do you think, Cas?” Dean asks. “Metatron, human. Stuck here. Certain amount of justice in that.”

                Cas frowns in consideration.

                “Won’t help Castiel,” Metatron rolls his eyes. “Stolen Grace has nearly burned that vessel out. Sorry, boys, thanks for playing. Only his original Grace will cut it now. You can slam the gates, grab the angel, make me human and kill me. It won’t matter. Castiel is going to die.”

                “It’s not a vessel,” Dean says, voice low and eyes dark. “That’s Cas. And you did that to him. So we’re going to do whatever we have to to fix it and if that involves cutting you up, well, I think you’re gonna find a pretty long line.”

                Georgia slides to Dean’s side, holding the Blade in one hand and an oil-drenched bullet in the other. “Your call.”

                Metatron’s eyes dart quickly between the siblings. He only has one chance. He can’t waste it.

                Georgia is standing just a bit closer.

                “Start from the outside and work your way in,” Georgia advises. “Spares the critical bits until the end.”

                She’s just walking by him, scant inches between them, when Metatron reaches out and latches onto her wrist. Any other day, the weight of him wrenching her to the side would be minimal, slight, but she twists just wrong and the stitches in her stomach pull and Georgia sinks to her knees with a shallow cry.

                Metatron spits in her face.

                Georgia wipes at it as Dean helps her up, muttering darkly and swiping the blueish spittle onto her jeans. “Gross, Metatron. Even for you. Don’t be a sore loser, loser.”

                It’s a good thing Sam is there too because the world dissolves as Georgia slumps over, Metatron’s laughter echoing in her ears.

***

                “What did you do?” Dean hauls Metatron up by his lapels, cracking a fist into his jaw.

                Cas cups Georgia heavy head in his hands, eyes wide as he runs a finger through the dampness on her cheek. He sits back abruptly. “Who touched her first?”

                “What?” Sam asks.

                “Who touched her first? Dean? Was it you or Sam?” Cas’s voice is angry and pleading and confused. “Where did you send her? _Who touched her first?”_

                “Dean did,” Sam admits, jaw tight. “Dean got to her first.”

                “Of course,” Cas says under his breath. Then he turns, pressing a desperate kiss to Dean’s lips. “We’re coming to get you, do you understand, Dean? I’m coming to get you.”

                Darkness is beginning to eat away at the edges of Dean’s vision. “Where am I going?” he asks.

                “I’m coming to get you.”

                “Cas?”

_“Dean!”_

                _“Dean!”_

“Dean!”

                Dean turns to look at his sister. She’s holding two boxes and blinking rainwater out of her eyes, pressed against his back to avoid the downpour. Her beast of a dog, Juliet, is behind her, whining. “Will you unlock the door already?”

                Dean shakes his head, turning back to the door of Winchester Books. The lock sticks every time, so he has to throw his shoulder into it. The bell above them dings and he reaches up automatically to silence it before flipping on the lights. He hits the dial on the stereo, telling himself it's going to be a good day when  _Sympathy for the Devil_ belts from the speakers. _  
_

                Georgia brushes by him, disappearing with Juliet through the shoulder level stacks into the backroom to drop off the boxes and hopefully start the coffee. Dean makes his way behind the counter, rifling through the mail and sorting out what needs to be dealt with right away and what can wait. Georgia returns, placing his Zep hermit mug in front of him and handing him the till. She throws a towel over Juliet, rubbing the dog down. "I hope you're prepared to walk home. That mutt isn't getting into the Impala soaking wet."

                “Place your bets,” she hops up on the counter, splitting her granola bar in half for him. “Will the rain drive ‘em in or keep ‘em out?”

                “Out,” Dean flips the sign on the window from CLOSED to OPEN. “Figured it was too cold for storms.”

                “Weird weather lately,” Georgia blows on her coffee which is mostly sugar and milk. “Charlie said lightning struck old Palmer’s field twice last week, one after the other, lit up the whole thing. Isn’t that where your little Batcave is?”

                “It’s a lake.”

                “It’s a pond,” Georgia corrects.

                “So it’s not a cave. There’s good fishing, what?” He eyes her suspiciously. “Oh, not you too.”

                “I’m just saying, mom thinks you’re meeting someone out there. I told her,” Dean’s walking away so Georgia raises her voice. He can’t go far while the store is open. “I told her you have your own house! Why would you be sneaking around a ramshackle barn like a high schooler?”

                “Is that why she keeps showing up at my place?” Dean asks, returning with furniture oil and a rag. He sets to work on the antique table that serves as their check out, shoving Georgia off of it. “Is she hoping to catch me in the act or something? Because that’s weird. Even for mom.”

                “Hey,” Georgia holds up her hands. “As long as she’s looking at you, she ain’t looking at me.”

                “You’re our little baby,” he gives her a noogie. “You’re perpetually seven. Mom and dad will never want to set you up with anyone. And Sam, Adam and I will kill anyone who tries to date you anyway.”

                Georgia hits him with a double thumbs up. “Alright with the dawdling. Those boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves. Benny’ll be by around 11 with the rest of the shipment.”

                A sharp pain lances through Dean’s head and he winces.

                “They’re coming,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

                “What?” Georgia asks, leaning against the door jamb to look at him. “Who’s coming?”

                “What?”

                “You said ‘they’re coming,’” she tells him. “Lay off the furniture polish. Or open the door, you’re getting loopy.”

                Dean props open the door a bit, careful not to let any rain in the bookstore, and returns to polishing the counter. The phrase repeats in Dean’s head, frantic and unrelenting.

                _I’m coming to get you._

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Bottom of the River - Delta Rae  
> Glory and Gore - Lorde


	12. There's a Funny Feeling Goin' On

***

                “What oh what will our valiant heroes do now?” Metatron asks, feigning concern through his laughter. “I picked a good one too, Castiel. Dean is going to want to stay right where he is.”

                “Knock him out,” Castiel barks and Cain is eager to respond, slamming his fist into the angel’s face, resulting in immediate oblivion.

                “Surely you’re strong enough to have done that?” Cain asks.

                “I would have killed him,” Castiel says darkly, holding Dean’s head in his lap.

                “What happened?” Sam demands. One minute he’s worried about Georgia’s stitches and two seconds later both her and Dean are down for the count. “What the hell just happened? What did you mean, ‘I’m coming to get you?’”

                “Do you remember when Zachariah made you into Sam Wesson?” Cas balls up his trench coat and tucks it under Dean’s head. He stands to pace, fingers drumming anxiously on jean-clad thighs.

                “Yeah,” Sam answers. “He jacked our memories and plunked us into a haunting to prove that we were meant to be hunters, right? That’s what Dean said.”

                “Correct,” Cas says. “However, it was a pocket dimension, an alternate timeline for you and Dean. One in which you were not brothers by blood but still meant to fight side by side against evil. Angels have access to these spaces, it grants us the ability to discern chance versus fate. Destiny. Being hunters, being together, those ones are always the same, minor details may be different.”

                “Moustache Sam,” he mutters under his breath. “So Metatron, what, sent Georgia and Dean to an alternate dimension?”

                “Essentially. Normally, angels would observe and report back, humans are kept ignorant. However, as Zachariah did, Metatron pushed Dean and Georgia’s consciousness, their essence, into the alternate dimension and we have their counterparts here. Locked away,” Cas taps at Dean’s temple, deciding to resume his place at Dean’s side.

                “So they’re living Alternate Dean and Alternate Georgia’s lives?” Sam scoots over as Cain lays Georgia on the couch.

                “Just as you and Dean were Dean Smith and Sam Wesson, yes.”

                Sam absorbs this. “How do we get them? You said you’re going to get him, right? So you have a plan.”

                “I-I was,” Cas stutters.

                Sam’s throat constricts. “You were consoling him. You didn’t want him to be scared.”

                “I don’t know that I retain enough Grace to cross dimensions like that,” Cas runs his finger tip over the scar on Dean’s chin.

                “Then I’ll go,” Sam says like Cas is stupid.

                “It isn’t that simple,” he replies. “There’s another Sam there. A doppelganger appearing like that could be catastrophic. Dean is meant to be a hunter, you know that. He’ll be one in that dimension as well, you think he’ll hesitate to kill a threat to you? Sam will be a hunter, do you think he’ll listen?”

                “Okay, okay,” Sam thinks back to what Georgia told him. Moustache Sam is Moustache Sam but Cas is… “But you exist everywhere, as an angel. Even a…slightly less than angel angel.”

                Cas blinks at him in confusion.

                “Georgia said you exist across all dimensions, you. Actual you. When Dean went to the future it was still you. But I can’t go,” Sam says, rubbing at the headache erupting behind his eyes, blinking spots from his vision.

                “I can,” Crowley points out, white knuckling the couch as he stares down at Georgia. “We’ll go spring ‘em, back in a tick.”

                “It isn’t that easy,” Castiel repeats. “They may not know us at all. We may be enemies. We may already be dead. There are infinite possibilities. Reminding them of who they are, where they belong, it may be impossible.”

                “We could be stars of the Imperial Russian Ballet, won’t know until we get there. Unless you’re worried about getting back?”

                “Of course not,” Cas spits. Not entirely truthful but still. Metatron wasn’t one to lie, especially when the truth hurt the most. Wherever Dean is, what if he’s happy?

                “Cas,” Sam says, making the angel focus on him. “You find a dimension where Dean doesn’t need you, and I’ll eat the Impala.”

                “Do you need something for the spell?” Cain asks, shutting down any of Castiel’s further arguments.

                “No,” Castiel responds. “We just go.”

                Crowley tweaks Georgia on the nose as he moves to stand behind the kneeling Castiel. He puts a hand on the angel’s shoulder. Cas presses his palm over Dean’s closed eyes.

                “I suggest you hurry,” Cain says, nodding to the slumped over form of Sam Winchester. “Sam’s gone too.”

***

                “And you’ll drag that good-for-nothing brother with you, yeah?” Benny asks, hefting the dolly into his truck and grinning at her.

                Georgia dusts off her hands, back sweaty from lifting boxes of books, and swipes her soggy hair from her face. “Be more specific, I have three of them.”

                “Its karaoke night,” Benny points out.

                “Dean then,” Georgia agrees. “What if I drop Dean off, promise to be DD and pick your sorry asses up, and I stay at home?”

                “Georgia girl,” Benny pulls her into a hug, tucking her head under his chin. She huffs in annoyance before wrapping her arms around him in return. “I don’t know who broke your heart but I got half a mind to kick ‘em in the teeth.”

                “I’m fine,” Georgia lies. “Charlie wants to go out tonight anyway and I’ll kill six birds with one stone if I make an appearance. First round is on you though.”

                Benny solidifies their agreement with a peck to her forehead before driving away with a goodbye honk. Georgia tugs the door closed behind her, surveying the 30-some boxes she has to sort through. It’s monotonous work that doesn’t require much brain power, unfortunate because it lets her mind wander.

                Whatever Benny thought, she wasn’t broken-hearted. She would have had to, at one point in time, risked her heart in order for it to be broken. Instead it just sat like a rock in her chest, cold and waiting, yearning for…something. Whatever was missing, had been missing.

                “I’m beginning to sound like Sam,” Georgia shakes her head and lifts the next box to the counter.

***

                “That took suspiciously less time than I imagined,” Crowley says, studying Winchester Books from across the street. It’s a simple brick building that shows its age in architecture but not in upkeep. The paint on the window frames is fresh, a ridiculous upbeat blue, and the flower boxes perched on the sill are cheerful. Crowley hates it on principle alone. “You’ve got Dean low jacked.”

                “I carved protective sigils into both his and Sam’s ribs in order to help them, that’s all,” Cas explains. He catalogues their surroundings. The Impala is parked outside of the shop, that one was expected. The fact that the Winchester’s ran a bookstore was surprising until he saw the symbol etched in the corner of the glass window. A pentagram encircled by fire, hunters were welcome here.

                Crowley knows it isn’t. “Does Dean know the extent of it?”

                “He does not,” Castiel admits. “I imagine you have some sort of plan.”

                “Perhaps seeing our handsome faces will be enough to trip the ol’ memory wires, eh?” he glares at the rainy sky. “Where are we?”

                “Lawrence, Kansas,” Castiel answers. “Neither Dean nor Georgia know us, that I can sense. As Metatron’s spell eventually affected Sam…the one we encounter may belong here and may be ours. I tried to explain that there were too many variables.”

                “As if you were going sit by and do nothing. They don’t belong here, you know that. Don’t let Buggertron mess with your head. That’s my job,” Crowley starts across the road but Castiel calls him back.

                “I have an inquiry, before we get started.”

                “An act of solidarity, is it? Shall we get matching tattoos? Would a blood oath suffice?”

                “I’d like to know if you have a protective order out on Claire Novak,” Castiel watches Crowley closely, looking for deception.

                “Ah,” Crowley clicks his tongue. “That. Well, you lot weren’t doing a great job of keeping an eye on her. It was entirely selfish, I guarantee you. She would’ve made a brilliant bargaining chip had I the opportunity to use it.”

                “You wanted me to owe you.”

                “You already owe me,” Crowley replies curtly, leading them across the street.

***

                Dean doesn’t make a habit of staring. He’s a fan of the classic “glance, look away, glance back. Maintain brief eye contact. Eventually make actual contact.” It’s flirty skill that’s served him well over the years.

                But safe behind the slightly tinted glass of Winchester Books, he can stare at the black-haired trench coated man across the street and no one (Sam) can accuse him of being creepy. No one (Adam) can tell him to ‘nut up and talk to him already.’ No one (Georgia and John) will let out an appraising wolf whistle, before jostling each other and making kissy noises. And most importantly, no one (his mother) can push back his hair and say, ‘honey, go introduce yourself!’ like he’s five.

                Nope. Dean is hidden here in his bookstore where he can ogle the beautiful stranger. He makes up a quick, fictional story about how Trench Coat and Other Guy are just buddies, stopping through Lawrence to…hmm, probably on their way to KC for a conference. They look like the conference type, suited up like that.

                They cross the street, bee lining it for the storefront.

                Dean forgets how to person, smashing his fingers under the tower of books he was toting around in order to look busy. Trench Coat pauses, shaking the rainwater from his hair, which should be illegal really, and inspects the hunter symbol.

                _Maybe not conference types_ , Dean thinks, suddenly both on edge and disappointed. It’s just like him, so typically Dean, to crush on a stranger and be attacked minutes later. Of course.

                The bell dings and the crack of thunder absolutely does not make Dean jump. Other Guy looks around the shop critically, running his fingers over shelves as if inspecting for dust while Trench Coat watches Dean.

                And it would be weird, should be weird, except Dean is staring right back.

                _I’m coming to get you._

                “Morning,” Dean greets, exceptionally proud of himself for getting the time of day correct. “You guys need help finding anything?”

                “We’re looking for the proprietor,” Other Guy says, British accent rankling Dean’s nerves even though he’s usually a fan.

                “You found him,” Dean spares Other Guy a glance.

                “Excellent. I’m Mr. Crowley and this is Castiel,” Crowley says and Dean’s memory fizzes minutely. “We’re from corporate. Just having a peek around, you understand. Making sure things are in order.”

                “Oh yeah?” a grin makes its way across Dean’s face. He focuses on Castiel, holding out his hand. “Dean Winchester.”

                “You can call me Cas,” Trench Coat, Castiel, returns his grip and Dean feels something explode in his stomach, something made of lightning and feathers. “Hello, Dean,” he says with a voice like scotch over ice, burning and soothing at the same time.

                “Cas.”                                                                           

                “Just you here then?” Crowley asks, browsing around.

                “Hey George, c’mere,” Dean calls and there’s shuffling from the back room. Then the door opens and a black mass of fur streaks across the shop and throws itself against Crowley’s legs. He sinks his fingers into Juliet’s fur, scratching behind her ears the way she likes. Georgia appears next, dusty and kind of sweaty, giving the men a quick once-over before turning to her brother.

                “These gentlemen are from corporate.”

                Georgia frowns. “Huh?”

                Cas shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, knowing there’s a silent conversation going on and it’s completely lost on him. Dean does look happy, Cas is loath to admit, but he’s also looking at Cas through lowered lashes so…perhaps…

                “This is Crowley,” Dean nods to the scruffy man in the black suit.

                “Must make you Aziraphale then,” Georgia jokes and it whooshes over the heads of everyone else in the room.

                He shakes her hand too, for a much shorter amount of time than Dean’s and barely looks at her. The blue eyed man tucks his hands in his pockets, jeans odd against the tan of his coat.

                “Georgia does most of the behind the scenes work. You could take Cas back and-“

                “Are you serious?” Georgia’s jaw clicks in irritation.

                “You’re right,” Dean nods sagely as if she’s just laid out a five-point argument. “He’s obviously the numbers guy. I’ll show him our books and you and Crowley can talk shipment.”

                _Dean,_ Georgia says silently with an arched eyebrow. _Seriously._

                _Oh, c’mon, George,_ Dean begs with exaggerated puppy eyes. _Look at him._

                _You’re buying all my drinks tonight._

                “Deal,” Dean claps his hands together and Castiel is aware another completely soundless conversation has taken place.

                “Let’s go,” Georgia waves Crowley after her.

                “Sir,” Crowley says pointedly.

                “Yeah, whatever,” she holds the door open for him.

***

                “Have a seat,” Georgia gestures to a chair in the corner before turning her back on him completely and returning to work.

                “Have I upset you?” Crowley asks, slipping into the chair as if it were a throne, fixing his gaze on her blushing neck.

                “Lookit, my brother might be willing to play your little game because he’s got a crush on your buddy but you can drop the act.”

                “What act is that?” Crowley asks, tilting his head at her frustrated sigh.

                “What is the shop called?” she asks.

                “Winchester Books,” Crowley answers.

                “That’s right,” she nods. “Winchester. As in John and Mary. And now Dean, Sam, Adam and Georgia. Winchester. Family business.”

                “So?”

                “So there’s no corporate,” Georgia answers. “What do you want?”

                Crowley swipes his tongue in the corner of his mouth. “Ah.”

                “Are you opening a competing bookstore? Because that’s a bad idea. Winchester’s is practically a landmark and my brothers aren’t above arson,” she says.

                “Are you?”

                “I wouldn’t be so blatant.”

                Crowley watches her work, since she seems adamant about ignoring him. Her hands are dirty but sure, wielding a box cutter with the same ease as a blade. It isn’t long before she starts singing, just as he knew she would. It’s what he’s waiting for.

                “ _Can’t you see that it’s just rainin’, ain’t no need to go outside…well, baby, you hardly even notice when I try to show you this song is meant to keep ya from doin’ what you’re spos’d to, wakin’ up too early maybe we could sleep, I’ll make_ -what?”

                “Do you ever stop singing?” he asks.

                “No,” she replies sharply, blush crawling up to her cheeks. “Not really.”

                “Why are you so on edge?” he asks, even though she’s not. Not at all. Aggravatingly not at all on edge. Nor does she seem to remember one of the first conversations they had. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

                “You can’t,” she responds easily, heaving the next box onto the counter.

                “Afraid to give me the chance?” he asks.

                Georgia whirls, ready to kick his ass just for being so lame. Who did he think he was, walking into her store, talking to her and being all accented. And here she was, blushing like an idiot. Now she was turning into Dean. She’d be channeling Adam next, shifting into controlled anger. Of course, that trait was shared by all of them. Some more controlled than others.

                “Can you hand me that tape?” she asks instead, pointing at the table near him.

                He stands and then stops.

                “Yeah, see,” she says sympathetically. “My brothers have always done Devil’s Traps in red spray paint, something old school about it, I guess. But I’ve found clear sealant does just as well, saves painting the ceiling just so the stupid ass demon who wanders into the backroom of a hunter’s occult shop doesn’t see it.”

                Crowley had been so caught up in Dean being a hunter that he viciously underestimated Georgia.

                So at least that remained the same across all dimensions.

                “Get cozy,” she turns away again. “After Dean finishes with your friend, I’m sure he’ll have some questions for you.”

                “You don’t have any questions for me?” Crowley fights for an idea, any plan to take shape in his brain. Cas isn’t likely to leave Dean any time soon (if ever). Dean isn’t likely to let him out of the Devil’s Trap. Georgia is still obnoxiously adorable covered in book dust and sweat.

                “Well, now that you mention it, one does spring to mind. Do you know what happens when I do this: _Exorcizamus te…_ ”

***

                “So what’re you guys really here for?” Dean asks, making his way around the register so he can lean against the counter. “You a hunter?”

                “Um,” Cas huffs out a laugh. “No. I don’t have the particular skills for it.”

                “Obviously. I’ve run a lot of covers through the years, you know. FBI is always my go-to but sometimes it’s Animal Control, Forest Rangers. One memorable night at the Spearmint Rhino,” Dean chuckles, wishing he was able to shut up when confronted by cute people. “Anyway...not a hunter. Then…how can I help you?”

                Cas is stunned to find himself wishing that Crowley would return. Castiel has always been a skilled liar but he doesn’t _want_ to lie to Dean. Not again. “I have some questions about your…business. Hunting, I mean.”

                “Shoot,” Dean says.

                “How long have you been a hunter?”

                “Forever,” Dean answers. “My mom’s family grew up in the life. Her and my dad got jumped on one of their first dates, mom apparently went all Xena on the poor bastard and John, that’s my dad, got hooked. He’s a Marine so it wasn’t a stretch. What about you?”

                “My…friends are ‘in the business,” Cas says and Dean grins at the air quotes. “You came highly recommended.”

                “Glad to hear it but uh, could you pass me that furniture polish?” Dean nods behind Cas to the opposite bookshelf. Cas retrieves the can and returns to Dean at the register. “So you’re not a demon then.”

                “No,” Cas follows Dean’s gaze down and kicks aside the mat to find the Devil’s Trap beneath. “Hmm, clever.”

                “How about that pen?”

                Castiel hands it to him, letting his fingernails trail against Dean’s palm.

                “Not a shifter,” Dean swallows tightly. He realizes he’s in trouble. Not the supernatural kind for once, which makes a nice change, but the real kind. Where things like _feelings_ are at risk but Cas has to be _some_ type of mythical creature because there is no way someone’s eyes can be that shade of mesmerizing blue and then there’s that barely-there smile which evidently turns its victims insides into a gooey mess. He’s obviously some kind of siren. Or an angel. _Wouldn’t that be something?_

                “Nor a vampire, nor a witch, nor a mermaid,” Cas says, leaning his elbows on the counter to lessen the distance between them. “I’m not here to hurt you, Dean. I need help.”

                “Yeah,” Dean tilts forward as well. “I get the feeling I can trust you and believe me, that don’t happen often. Only people I trust are my family. You’re not like a long-lost cousin, are you? Because a few of those have crawled out of the woodwork and they’re awful.”

                “We are not related,” Cas says and silently adds, _but we are family._

                “Thank goodness,” Dean mutters under his breath. “So what’re you hunting? Maybe we could talk about it over dinn-”

                The bells dings and Sam wanders in, eyes wide and searching, like he didn’t expect to be here.

                “Sam, you’re the worst,” Dean sighs. “What’s up?”

                “Oh hey, Dean,” Sam says before looking at Cas. “I see you found the place…agent?”

                Cas shakes his head an infinitesimal amount.

                “Officer?” he tries.

                Another headshake.

                “This is Cas,” Dean introduces him while willing Sam to realize that he needs to go away.

                “Right,” Sam says. “Hey, can I have a soda?”

                “The fridge is like 20 feet away, go get it yourself. I’m with a customer.”

                “I know,” Sam attempts to keep his cool but his ire with Dean is rising. “I sent him your way. I ran into him on a case at the library.”

                “There’s a case at the library?” Dean asks.

                “No, we were at the library.”

                “Researching a case?”

                “Yeah, there’s a uh-“

                “Haunting,” Cas supplies, edging closer to Sam.

                “Haunting, yeah, exactly,” Sam grabs Cas’s elbow, pulling him back toward the shelves. “Any time with that soda, Dean!”

                “Are you…” Cas hesitates. “Sam?”

                “If I weren’t, that question would be super obvious. I woke up in Moustache Sam’s house, _next to Moustache Sam_ but he was asleep so I figured I’d knock him out or tie him up or something so he wouldn’t get in the way but the second I touched him, it was like Mario eating a mushroom. We warped all together and now I’ve got two lives bouncing around in my skull.”

                Cas continues nodding throughout Sam’s story, frown deepening. Then he asks, “I don’t see the relevance of Sam having a moustache.”

                “No, _Cas_ ,” Sam tugs at his hair. “Dean runs an occult shop and Georgia works here while she goes to school. Adam is a freaking Marine. I work for the university library. I get paid to research shit all day.”

                Cas’s heart sinks. “It’s the perfect world.”

                “Actually, no, guess what’s missing?” Sam starts to tell him but he’s interrupted by Georgia slamming the back door and collapsing against it.

                “So funny story,” she says awkwardly. “Hi, Sam. You know how, normally, when you exorcise a demon…they leave?”

                “You tried to exorcise him?” Castiel asks.

                “He’s a demon?” Dean growls, focusing his anger on Cas. “You let a demon go with my little sister?”

                Georgia bristles. “ _You_ let a demon go with your little sister. I did the whole exorcism _twice_ and nothing happened! He’s just looking at me!”

                “Oh,” Sam strings his words together haphazardly, hoping it’s somewhat convincing. “Is this your friend Crowley that you mentioned? He’s like a good,” he wrinkles his nose at the word. “Like a good demon.”

                “They come in different flavors,” Cas adds, hoping it helps.

                It doesn’t. “A demon and some dude are investigating a haunting?” Dean asks skeptically. “Is this for reality TV or something because I can’t imagine the ratings being that great.”

                “You watch _Dr. Sexy_ ,” Georgia snips.

                “Guess what TV show made it into every dimension ever?” Sam whispers to Cas. Then he says, “Dean, man, _soda._ ”

                “Get it yourself, bitch,” Dean throws the pen at him.

                “Hello!” a voice calls out from the back. “Georgia? I just wanted to drop off some lunch-oh, hi. Have you seen my daughter?”

                Sam, Georgia and Dean exchange panicked glances. “Mom!”

***

                “Would you three like to explain why there’s a demon in the stock room?” Mary’s eyes dart over her children before going back to Crowley. “Sweetie, if this is about the harvesting thing, you have to know that I was kidding.”

                “They just showed up,” Dean says.

                “Well exorcise him, George. I brought lunch,” she holds up two bags of Chinese food.

                “I tried,” Georgia says. “He’s stuck in there. What were you talking about Sam?”

                Sam huffs, retrieves Georgia’s box cutter and slices at the clear sealant before filing that away as a _really, really good idea._ “Crowley is stuck in that vessel. There’s no human hanging out, it’s just him. He works with Cas. They’re…hunters.”

                “Cas?” Mary’s green eyes widen and she pushes past the boys into the shop.

                He’s different than she remembers. Adrenaline and fear had warped that whole night into a mess of fire and smoke. He was older now too, greying at the temples, which surprised her, and just a little downtrodden. The jeans and button up shirt that looked like it had been snatched from Dean’s own closet suited him but it was the over coat that gave him away.

                He seems to recognize her but he doesn’t seem to _know_ her.

                “Hunters always welcome,” Mary sorts through the food, separating out her children’s favorites. Shrimp tempura for Georgia, spicy orange chicken for Dean, and Lo Mein for Sam because it’s healthy even though he’ll eat two orders of crab Rangoon by himself and negate the entire thing. Adam’s share of Bourbon chicken is placed in the fridge, well away from Dean. She tells Crowley to help himself before waving to Cas. “Help me get the plates, would you?”

                He follows her diligently to the back of the shop and up the little stairs to the apartment situated above the store. He can hear Sam doing his best to include Crowley in the sibling’s conversation even though Georgia and Dean want no part of it.

                He’s barely inside the kitchen when she whips around and he suddenly has an armful of Mary Winchester. She hugs him tight, with more strength than he’s prepared for when his spine pops, and then shifts away, catching his jaw in her hands.

                “Oh look at you,” she says, all motherly affection. “It’s been decades and you look nearly the same! If you could bottle that angel Grace and sell it, well, that’d be something. You’re too thin, Castiel. Just what have you been up to?”

                “Y-you know me?” Cas gapes at her. She has tears in her eyes and she’s smiling at him like he’s one of her own.

                She chuckles. “I may be older too but my mind’s just as sharp as the day we met. I thought you’d died, you know. All that light and fire and I was certain he’d gotten you. But here you are. Oh, Dean’s just going to kiss you. I’ve been telling him your story for years.”

                “Which story is that?” Castiel asks carefully, surprised to find he’s suddenly holding paper plates and plastic ware.

                “November 2nd, 1983,” Mary smiles. “That’s how I always started it, because it had to sound like a fairytale when he was little but I told him the truth when he got older. November 2nd, the day Azazel came for Sam. I’d tucked him in and checked on Dean and John when I heard him. I’d forgotten, maybe on purpose, that ten years had passed. That night with my dad felt so unreal but I should have known, should have been more prepared. But he was there and I froze and I just thought, _no_ , you know? _Someone help me_. And then there you were. Your _voice_ , you don’t forget that voice. ‘Mary Winchester,’ you said. ‘My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord. I’m here to save your son.’ And then you did.”

                The papery flap of plates to the floor is not as dramatic as ceramic would have been, but Cas barely hears it anyway.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banana Pancakes - Jack Johnson
> 
> Song Inspiration:  
> This Place is a Prison - The Postal Service  
> Lost - Amanda Palmer


	13. Do You Hear Them Falling?

                Sam spends an awkward twenty-minute lunch mediating conversation between his siblings, a Crowley they don’t know, his mother (his _mother!_ ), and a shell-shocked Castiel. Given the shaken and glassy-eyed way he had followed Mary down the stairs, blandly passing out plates and utensils that weren’t used, and fallen into a contemplative silence, Mary had told the angel how she’d recognized him.

                _I always knew angels were watching over you all,_ she’d told Moustache Sam as she tucked him into bed when he was four. _You are keeping that angel busy,_ she’d told him at seven when he’d fallen off his bike and miraculously overshot the thistle patch. _That angel did not save your sorry hides just so I could kill you myself,_ she’d shouted at Dean, Adam, and sixteen-year-old Sam after disobeying direct orders to _not_ join John and Bobby on their latest hunt. _To your angel_ , she’d toasted when he turned twenty-one.

                It was all fake, Sam knows. All those memories fabricated by Metatron, spun on a loom to mimic the perfect life. But it was so close, so absolutely spot on to what Castiel had come to mean to all of them that it wasn’t hard to fall into the lie.

                Georgia and Dean eventually get interrupted by actual customers and Mary bustles off to run errands and Sam calls into work with a family emergency and drags Castiel and Crowley to a cafe down the street under the guise of discussing their fictional case.

                Sam nearly felt bad as he ushered them into the street, certain that if he turned back he’d find Dean with his face pressed against the glass like a hungry street urchin.

                “Okay, okay,” Sam said after commandeering a little table tucked next to the window, venti Chai latte dwarfed by his large, shaking hands. “Is that really my mom?”

                “She is a possible Mary, but Sam,” Castiel says kindly. “Mary is in Heaven.”

                “So Azazel never got her? Could that have happened?” Sam asks Crowley. “It was a demon deal, you can’t just void those, can you?”

                Crowley makes a quick gesture like flicking a towel and a roll of parchment appears in his hands. “Well, lookit that. Still King of Hell, excellent,” he skims the writing. “Mary Campbell, blah blah blah, save John Winchester, blah, Azazel blood, charming. _Here we are._ Deal incomplete: higher power intervened.”

                “What does that mean?”

                “It means God allowed the first half of the deal to proceed: Azazel brought John back to life. Then God decided He didn’t want Mary killed and an angel was dispatched,” Crowley shrugs, sipping his coffee, black with just a hint of cinnamon.

                “ _I_ was dispatched,” Castiel says. “Mary remembered me. But Azazel wasn’t just some cross-roads demon.”

                “That would explain the note at the bottom: _Demon and angel destroyed_. So Mary never dies, Adam and Georgia are born to John and Mary, who stay hunters,” Crowley clicks his tongue. “Always willing to die for the Winchesters, eh Cas?”

                “But that changes _everything_ ,” Sam ticks events off on his fingers. “I would have never been killed, Dean wouldn’t have made a deal and gone to Hell. Castiel wouldn’t have gotten him out. I wouldn’t have been a moron and gone with Ruby and Lucifer would have stayed in the Cage. You two wouldn’t have worked together, _you_ ,” he says to Cas. “Wouldn’t have gotten killed and sent Dean off the deep end. We wouldn’t have had to gank Dick. No Purgatory. No re-wiring, no Metatron. No Abaddon, no Mark. I mean, s _hit_ , the toughest crap we’ve been through is stuff we created ourselves and in this world none of that happened. We’re just regular hunters.”

                When Sam stops rattling on long enough to glance at the men across from him, he’s surprised to find anguish on both of their faces. “Which means,” he continues. “No you two.”

                “I was killed saving you from Azazel,” Cas says. “And you would never have needed the Colt from Crowley.”

                “Well that settles it, how do we get home?” Sam claps his hands together with finality.

                “Sam,” Cas says. “You just agreed that this dimension is nearly perfect. Why are you willing to leave?”

                “This isn’t real, Cas, we’ve gotta remember that. And I know for a fact that Georgia and Dean aren’t happy here, not really. It’s supposed to be you and Dean, Cas. You have to believe in that.”

                “Oi, what about me?” Crowley distracts Sam, noting the angel’s discomfort.

                “ _You,_ ” Sam practically hisses. “Cas has always batted for us, always. You haven’t done anything. Case in point, in this universe, Castiel found Dean again. You never met Georgia. Maybe you took a little torture for her and maybe saved her life since I’m not convinced Holy fire would kill her, but other than that…I can’t give you my blessing.”

                “I’m not asking for it, Moose,” Crowley growls and sinks back, ready for Cas to reclaim the spotlight but the angel is staring at him like he’s had a sudden revelation. “Well, how are you going to remind loverboy that he’s your one and only?”

                “Crowley,” Cas starts and Crowley realizes he’s dangerously close to being asked a question.

                “Maybe reenacting how you first met?” he says quickly. “I tried with Georgia but it didn’t seem to jog her memory. I thought touching but we both shook Squirrel’s hand and no dice. True love’s kiss?”

                “Crowley,” Castiel repeats, looking absurdly serious over his coffee. “Why did you want the Colt?”

                “Gun that kills demons,” Crowley mutters. “Think I’ll be keeping my eye on that, thanks.”

                “But you handed it right over. You killed the demons to prove it was real and then you just gave it to them to kill Lucifer.”

                “It’s not like it worked.”

                “No,” Sam’s inspecting him now too. “But you really thought it would. You said Lucifer would kill all the demons once he was finished with the humans, which is probably fair, but what was it really?”

                “I was at the top of the pyramid, couldn’t go back to middle management,” Crowley gestures for the waitress to refill his coffee, silencing the men briefly. “Shouldn’t you be running off to seduce your charming bookstore owner?”

                Sam ignores him. “You were worried about what he’d do to her.”

                “Oh please,” Crowley knows that if he could sweat he’d be dripping.

                “Lucifer had Cain under his thumb and Georgia would have been too, with the Mark.”

                “I don’t like people mucking about with my things,” Crowley says testily.

                “Then what?” Sam asks Castiel. “You made a deal with him?”

                Castiel nods, remembering. “Together we figured out how to open Purgatory in order to claim the souls. I reneged on our agreement and he went to Raphael. Did you offer your services in return for Georgia’s protection?”

                “Like I’m going to mention her to _Raphael_ , are you insane?” he deflects again with an exaggerated wink. “Sex! Even if it doesn’t tap his memory, still a good time.”

                “Real romantic, Crowley,” Sam whines, burying his face in his hands.

                “You had to have known that blood wasn’t right,” Cas squints at him. “You threw road blocks but never to the extent that someone would really get hurt. Even Lisa, you were ready to intervene at a moment’s notice, weren’t you? And that spell could have been completed anywhere that night but you chose to return to the factory. You brought me Raphael.”

                “There are absolutely too many variables, you big dummies,” Crowley chuckles and resists the urge to tug at his collar. “Too many risks.”

                “No,” Sam says in wonder. “There was only one risk. You knew Cas was there and you did the spell for him, you served Raphael on a big freaking platter. But then, what? You forget all about Georgia, start focusing on the tablets, and decide to just screw with us for a few years? Yeah, can’t imagine why she’s not interested in you now, huh? You’re happy to protect her until the outcome for you is just a little sweeter, just a little more power.”

                Crowley finally snaps, more than aware he’s blundered right into Sam’s trap. “What good would opening the Gates permanently do me, really? Can you imagine the paperwork, not to mention the coups? Hell is full of back-stabbing bastards and I would be an absolute Winchester, yes I mean that as an insult, to kick those suckers open. Lucifer would have either killed Georgia or fallen in love with her and neither of those things were happening on my watch. Raphael meant to take out all the demons, including Cain. I placed my bets on Castiel because even as God he would never have touched her, he owed her too much. After that, maybe, things went a bit pear-shaped. I was grasping at threads: Kevin, tablets, everything. Keeping far enough ahead of you that you’d never know about her, not from me at least. And then she found you.”

                “All of it was for her,” Castiel realizes. “You needed to know what was _on_ the tablets, not how to use them.”

                “You…you,” Sam stumbles over his thoughts and then his eyes go wide. “Oh my God, you’re Snape. I hated you for seven books but you’re kind of a hero.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s completely selfish.”

                “Keeping someone alive and protected is actually selfless, Crowley. You may not recognize it, what with doing most of this without actual emotions, but…I mean, didn’t you think that if you’d just _explained_ what was going on, maybe we would have helped you?”

                Crowley and Castiel roll their eyes simultaneously.

                “We wouldn’t have believed him,” Cas says. “Even being aware of their relationship, I wouldn’t have believed him.”

                “Not only that,” Crowley adds. “Keeping her out, keeping her away from me was the best thing I could do for her. I sure as hell was not dragging her into your lives too. Everyone near and dear to the Winchesters snuffs it, particularly Winchesters themselves. If I could lock her in a little box and trap her there forever, I would. Little brat would just break out of it.”

                “Were you thinking of her?” Sam asks softly. “In the church? You said that you just wanted to be loved…”

                “Do you often hold a drunk’s words against them?”

                “Crowley,” Sam looks like he’s on the verge of tears and Crowley huffs in annoyance.

                “I didn’t do right by her, the first time around,” Crowley admits, voice strained. “You’ll find, there’s only hunger when you’re a demon, only a desire for more. I loved her the best I could, I did, but it was peanuts to how much she loved me. And see, she was always there. No matter how bad I got, no matter what I did to get that throne, the little moron was by my side. Until, one day, she wasn’t.”

                “Meg,” Sam says.

                “Meg, Tara, Simon, Bea,” Crowley says. “Meg was just the last. The blow on a fault line that never should have existed. She left, for the better really, and I thought as long as I stayed in power, a step ahead of you lot, she’d be okay. At least I knew, even if she hated me, she was out there. Somewhere. And then I had to _feel it._ I had to feel what it was like to have the most precious thing in existence and know,” the corner of his mouth ticks up. “And _know_ that I wasted it.”

                “There was only the mission,” Cas adds quietly and the demon and angel share a significant look.

                “How do I begin to ask for forgiveness?” Crowley asks and Sam has no answer for him.

                “You have a second chance now,” Sam says finally. “Both of you.”

                “The first time I met your brother, he stabbed me in the chest,” Castiel says.

                Sam nods, contemplative. “Let’s call that Plan B. What is the worst that can happen if we just straight up tell them that they’re in the wrong dimension?”

                “Their minds disintegrate, taking this universe and us with them,” Castiel explains.

                “Or they think we’re monsters and kill us,” Crowley adds.

                Sam registers none of this, eyes tracking the figure that has just passed the window and breezed into the coffee shop, shaking off his coat at the door and slinging it over one of the hooks. He stomps his feet before his gaze settles on Sam.

                “Hey,” John Winchester says, crossing the café in three easy strides and clapping a stunned Sam on the shoulder. “Your mom called, said I should come meet your friend.”

                “Dad,” Sam chokes out and pulls John into a hug. It’s stupid and obvious because Moustache Sam just saw John yesterday. But the last time Real Sam saw him was, how many years ago now? just after Dean shot Azazel, wasn’t it?

                John’s hand lingers on Sam’s jaw, patting him affectionately before turning to the other two men.

                If Crowley thought he was terrified of Cain, it was nothing compared to the fear that rolled through him in the face of John Winchester. Cain was simple, easy to decode. He hated Crowley, wanted him dead, and wanted his little girl nowhere near him. John probably wanted the exact same things but the uncertainty made him all the more petrifying.

                Castiel wanted to be able to separate Real John from the man before him, to not hate him for the years of anguish he put Dean through. Hate that a vendetta cost Dean and Sam a normal childhood. Hate that so much of the worthlessness that Dean felt could be laid at this man’s feet.

                But it wasn’t this man. Not really. Love, Cas knew, could make someone do some dark, dangerous things they never thought themselves capable.

                And all of it. The nastiness and the pain and the struggle, all of it had led him to Dean.

                “I’m going to grab some joe and then we’ll talk, huh?” he shuffles away and Sam falls into his chair, knees giving out.

                “You’re on good terms,” Castiel says.

                Sam taps on his temple. “Turns out, with no dead mother to avenge, explaining that you’d like to go to college and get a real job goes over pretty well.”

                “That’s not your father, Sam,” Castiel eyes widen as he makes his point.

                “Are you reminding me or you?”

                “Castiel,” John cups Castiel’s hand in both of his when they shake. “It is very nice to meet you.”

                “You as well, sir,” Cas sits back down.

                “And Crawley, was it?” John asks.

                “Crowley,” he corrects. “Though it seems you talked to Dean.”

                “Georgia, actually,” John says. “Mary may have called while I was at the shop. You angels must be tough. That fire was…I’ve never seen anything like it. Firefighters hadn’t either. Kept sayin’ how rare it was, fire burning that hot. I’ll never forget that color of blue.”

                Sam searches Moustache Sam’s memory but comes up with nothing. He tells Cas as much with an eyebrow raise.

                “It’s a bit of a blur,” Castiel lies. “May I ask what happened afterward?”

                “You don’t remember?” John asks.

                Cas scrubs at the back of his neck and Crowley kicks him under the table. “I was severely injured. It took me a very long time to recover.”

                “Well, I heard Mary scream,” John begins, voice rough. “I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, keeping up with a toddler and an infant…fell asleep anywhere I could. I was just at the stairs when I heard the voices. You told her who you were, that you were there to save Sammy,” he slings an arm around the behemoth next to him and pulls him tight to his side. “The other guy got all up in arms about a deal. He, uh, he tried to attack Mary, sliced at her but you held out your hand and he kind of froze.”

                John runs his thumb over the lip of the coffee cup. “It didn’t take him long to recover. You got Sammy to Mary who got him to me but…the fight, whatever it was, wasn’t going in your favor and Mary had it in her head that you needed help. She told me to get the boys out, grabbed a shotgun and went back. Dean had woken up at this point, he was just four. No taller than my knees. The fire started then…or whatever it was. I got to the bottom of the stairs with the boys when I heard Mary start shooting. I couldn’t, well, you know. So I gave Sammy to Dean, told ‘em to get out and went after Mary.”

                _Dean still carried me out,_ Sam thinks, affection blossoming in his chest.

                “I’d just gotten to the top of the stairs again when Mary was tossed into the hallway. You were yelling at her about getting back, getting out. You shut the door and then the whole fuckin’ house shook, like artillery going off, constant. I grabbed Mary and made it out when the whole house went up. That blue fire just tore through it. Nothing left.”

                “Not exactly nothing,” Sam recalls, memory straining.

                “Bit of a local legend now for those not exactly in the know. A whole garden sprung up on the lot, flowers people haven’t seen in centuries, ever maybe, just blooming away. Even in the winter. They think it’s a phenomenon but Mary said it was your Grace. That’s why we all thought…that maybe you hadn’t made it.”

                “Has there been trouble with angels?” Castiel asks. “Since the incident?”

                John’s dark brows pull down in confusion. “Son, you’re the only angel there’s been.”

                Of course. With Lucifer posing no threat, there was no reason for the angels to come to Earth. _But why me?_ Cas wonders. _Why that night?_

***       

                They while away a few hours at the cafe, searching disinterestedly through obscure websites on memory charms, knowing that the actual answer to their problems had to be in their own heads. Sam gets them a hotel a few blocks from the book store. Castiel reminds him that neither he nor Crowley sleep and Sam is wasting his money. But Sam says it would look strange if they just sat in the café all day and Crowley is too busy drinking everything in the mini bar to worry about Moustache Sam’s finances.

                Sam’s phone goes off and he answers. “Hey George. Yeah, he’s here. Karaoke? Oh, Dean. Sure…no, I can’t leave Crowley behind. If I have to go, you have to go. Because I’m older. No, also smarter. Well, no, you could kick my ass but…okay. Yep. See you there.” He ends the call and turns to the two men. “I guess we’re going to the bar.”

***

                “Finally!” Georgia declares when Sam arrives with Castiel and Crowley in tow. She doesn’t look away from the game she’s playing with Charlie. There are five filled shot glasses in front of each girl and an empty one in between. They take turns banking quarters from the table into the empty glass.

                “We’re too good,” Charlie moans as her quarter lands neatly in the glass with a _tink!_ And the ten shots remain untaken.

                “Old Snake,” Georgia demands and each girl lifts a hand to cover one eye.

                Their aim is still too good.

                “The Stranger,” Charlie suggests and they reach across the table to punch each other’s shoulders, resulting in immediate dead arms.

                Charlie misses three and Georgia missed two and half the shot glasses are emptied only to be replaced almost immediately by Benny.

                “All the pretty boys owe me drinks tonight,” Georgia sing-songs, scooting over to allow Sam room on her side, squishing Cas next to Charlie as Crowley pulls up a chair.

                “Where’s Dean?” Sam asks, looking for other familiar faces at the bar. Besides Charlie and Benny there aren’t any.

                “Probably changing his shirt for the third time, the big girl,” her gaze flicks to Cas before focusing back on Sam. “You know how he gets.”

                “Totally,” Sam agrees but doesn’t actually know that at all. This Dean, Moustache Dean, hasn’t had any serious relationships that he’s let Sam know about, much like the Real Dean. Mary thinks he’s seeing someone secretly, sneaking them up to a lake, and has resorted to bribing Sam and Georgia for information and casually mentioning to Adam that he has access to all sorts of military surveillance. _That boy has so much love in him,_ she’d given Sam the puppy eyes he obviously got from her, _he just needs someone to smother with it._

                _Some_ one,Mary had always said. _Someone._

He’s just turning his thoughts on John when Dean appears and sets a pitcher in the middle of the table and begins passing out glasses. “Your highness, George, Sammy, Crowley,” he says a little harshly before his voice softens. “Hey, Cas.”

                “Hello, Dean,” the angel replies and the rest of the table shifts uncomfortably when the staring commences.

                “Well sit,” Crowley snaps, shoving Dean next to Cas who crashes into Charlie who splashes beer on the table.

                “Party foul, Bradbury!” Georgia calls out and slides the remaining shot glasses toward her. “Bottoms up.”

                Charlie takes them like a champ but Dean holds his hand up when Benny returns. “Let her settle. We get her sloshed this early in the night and we’ll be hearing about orcs and dark magic and what a tragedy it was that _Firefly_ only got one season.”

                “He says like he didn’t flip shit when Rose stayed with Ten-point-two,” Charlie wipes her mouth and sticks her tongue out at Dean.

                “He wasn’t the real Doctor, Charlie!”

                “I thought it was karaoke,” Georgia interrupts as a band sets up on stage, _test-test_ ing the microphone and picking at their instruments.

                “They got some bluegrass-hybrid-fiddle band,” Dean says. “You never sing anyway, _thank God_ , I don’t need anyone challenging my reign.”

                “Dean,” Sam groans. “Everyone hates karaoke. Everyone. The drunk people singing hate it. The people listening hate it. You are the only person in the world who enjoys karaoke.”

                “I am a man of unique tastes,” Dean says while thinking _Don’t look at Cas, don’t look at Cas, don’t look at Cas_ and he immediately looks at Cas.

                The band is pretty good once they get started, a thumping beat that drags people onto the floor for line dancing. Sam can’t remember the last time he line danced, but Moustache Sam did so the week before. Dean had too. A plan begins to take shape in his head.

                “Dean, dance with me,” Georgia commands, ducking under the table to crawl out and using Crowley’s knee as leverage to stand. The King of Hell lets out a tortured noise.

                “George,” Dean pleads, subtly indicating Cas with a side eye but Georgia isn’t persuaded.

                “C’mon, you won’t owe me the drinks. You’re the only one who can do the flip, Sam’s all coltish limbs and Hulk strength,” Georgia holds out her hand with more ferocity.

                “I can dance!” Sam defends.

                “My bruised rib would disagree.”

                Dean finally caves, grasping her hand and following her onto the dance floor. His ears are rosy and he’s grinning like an absolute fool. Cas watches with rapt attention as Dean and Georgia take places side by side in line, easily joining the steps of their fellow dancers. It dissolves abruptly, into pairs, and they fall into a kind of two-step for a few minutes before returning in line. Dean makes it look effortless when he flips Georgia over his arm.

                “Well that ruined my plan,” Sam says into his beer, brain kicking in.

                “Plan?” Charlie asks with complete innocence. “What plan? Castiel. Dance with me.”

                She leaves him absolutely no choice, tugging the trench coat down his arms and Castiel feels naked in his shirt and jeans but Charlie’s palm is warm and steady as she leads him to the floor, putting Cas’s hand on her hip and hers on his shoulder. She talks him through the steps, a beat slower than everyone else, but it isn’t long before he catches on, nerves shaken off by the fact that no one else seems to know the steps either. The groups split back into line and Sam realizes what diabolical little brats Georgia and Charlie are.

                Because Georgia slips back, and Charlie steers Cas forward, and Dean, expecting his little sister, twists, fingers closing around Cas’s outstretched hand.

                It should be strange. It should be weird and awkward and thirty-one flavors of bizarre but his other hand wraps around Cas’s shoulder and Cas’s palm is on his hip and they move into the steps without thinking.

                Dean catches a flash of red as Charlie and Georgia twirl next to them, Georgia executing the spinning move on Charlie that had resulted in her ownbruised rib.

                “Sorry about them,” Dean apologizes though he’s not remotely sorry and the grin glued on his face is evidence.

                “I don’t mind,” Cas answers distractedly, staring intently at Dean’s feet and trying to keep up.

                “Hey,” Dean lifts his chin, getting Cas’s eyes to meet his and pilots him through the dance. “Just move. It’s like fighting, right? You think about where your opponent is as much as you think about where you want him to be.”

                _I know where I want him,_ Cas thinks and then blushes.

                If Dean pulls Cas a little closer, well, the music is slowing down. And if he misses the next fallout into line, Georgia threw him off. And if his thumb slips along the sweaty skin at Cas’s collar, well, he really likes the way Cas’s eyes flutter shut and how his hand tightens involuntarily around Dean’s.

                Dean feels Cas’s breath, easy even puffs, against his own neck, not realizing they’d gotten that close. Their chests are pressed flush now and he can feel their belt buckles clinking though the sound is lost to the music. And Dean, he can’t help it. Can’t help but turn his head a fraction to the right, the rough stubble tickles his lips, and he presses an unmistakable kiss to the underside of Cas’s jaw.

***

                “Now see,” Crowley gestures to the two men. “They’ll be going at it in no time!”

                “I mean,” Sam mutters, dumbfounded. “Five years. Five years and the threat of imminent death for Dean to admit that _maybe_ he has feelings for Cas. And now, just…”

                “Sam,” Crowley pours himself another beer. “That’s not Dean. You can’t forget that.”

                “But it could be,” Sam argues. “If our real lives weren’t so screwed up, he could have this.”

                “It doesn’t matter,” Crowley says firmly.

                “You’re only saying that because Georgia hates you.”

                Crowley clicks his tongue, watching the girl in question who is apparently waltzing to bluegrass with Charlie. He’d expected it to be easier than this, honestly. Georgia, his Georgia, was so in love with him she’d defied Cain in order to see him yet this girl looked at him like well, like he didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t important to her.

                She shot him curious glances over the redhead’s shoulder, averting her gaze quickly every time, and he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his leg. So there was interest there, even if she didn’t want to acknowledge it. It was like, well in fact it was almost exactly like…

                “He knows we can see them, doesn’t he?” John asks, slumping into the seat next to Sam who stiffens and fumbles his drink.

                “Dad, oh, hey. I was just-did, did you see the…the paper. I mean, the news,” Sam stutters, mopping at the mess.

                “I think it’s sweet,” Mary sits across from them, patting Crowley on the shoulder and greeting him with a fond, “Hello.”

                Sam takes a second, hands soaked with spilled beer, to really look at his father. John’s mouth is quirked in a smile, his eyes bright if a little confused. There’s no judgement, no anger, no utter _fury_ that Sam was prepared for. Sam chances a glance at Cas and Dean, still up in each other’s space, and John follows his gaze.

                “Think this one’ll stick?” he asks and completely floors Sam.

                “You don’t, uh,” Sam mutters. “Mind?”

                “Mind what?” John asks and Crowley doesn’t bother to hide his chuckle. “Oh, because of the angel thing?”

                “No, that’s not exactly what I was talking about.”

                “Oh,” John sighs with an air of I’ve-had-it-up-to-here Sam recognizes as Dean’s. “Look, you can do all the feeling crap with Mary that you want. Dean’s happy, I’m happy. That angel breaks his heart and they’ll be finding his body for weeks. That goes double for you, Crawley,” John says. “Don’t think I can’t see the way you’re looking at Georgia.”

                Crowley blanches but doesn’t back down. “Message received: you’ll cut me into itty bitty pieces.”

                “John,” Mary says in warning.

                “You’d be lucky if it were me,” John replies. “George will skin you alive.”

***

                The band goes quiet but Dean doesn’t want to give up the feel of Cas in his hands so he keeps his arm wrapped around his back and pulls him toward the bar. They don’t order anything and Benny, who’s tending during the rush, ignores them, leaving the duo wrapped in a cozy little bubble.

                “How long are you in town?” he asks.

                “As long as the case takes,” Castiel lies, tapping his long fingers on the lacquered bar top. “It may be some time.”

                “Awesome,” Dean grins at him and silence descends. It isn’t strained, there’s no desire to fill the quiet with idle chit chat. The thought comes from nowhere that Cas would make a good road trip partner. He and the kids have made some long hauls in the Impala. It’s usually Sammy because he’s good for the research, but he’s always typing away at something, or clicking his pen, or whining about the music. Adam zonks out within ten minutes so he’s easy, though he always wakes up cranky. Georgia gets too claustrophobic in the car, always saying she’s going to figure out how demons just zapped everywhere and do that.

                Dean fights the desire to nose at the sweat beading on Cas’s temple and chase it to his jaw and down where it must be pooling in the hollow at his throat. But he has the faintest memory of doing that, following that trail, licking at that thin white scar. And that’s crazy because he just met Cas today. Not even twelve hours ago but the thought of Cas getting into a car with Crowley and driving away makes a pit erupt in his chest and before he can remind himself that there are lines that normal people don’t cross, he reaches between them and hooks Cas’s belt loop with his finger.

                _Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean._ Cas reminds himself, feeling the thump of Dean’s heart near his own as they danced. _Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean._ The mantra continues as Dean’s mouth finds his jaw, mapping a barely-there line to his chin. _Not Dean. Not Dean._ The music stops and the world spins on as Dean, warm against his back, guides him to the bar. _Not Dean._ Green eyes fall to the collar of his shirt and his belt loop gets tugged.

                _Dean. Dean. Dean._

                “There’s something…” Dean stutters then says. “Can I take you somewhere? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

                “Anywhere, Dean,” Cas replies, following Dean from the bar.

                _Anywhere._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration:
> 
> Hey Brother - Avicii  
> Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene - Hozier


	14. I've Been a-searchin' for my Baby

     Georgia slips away from Charlie and heads toward the bar, hopping onto the stool her brother had just vacated. She can feel the demons eyes on her so she keeps her back to him resolutely. It was the way he looked at her, she thought, that was making her so uncomfortable. It wasn't the grossed out, creeped on uncomfortable that she'd usually respond to with a crushing quip or a throat punch. It was sad and hollow and _pining_. She'd unpacked enough boxes of trashy romance novels to recognize the expression, though it tended to be smattered across the female face rather than male, but unmistakable none the less. Crowley looked at her like he was waiting, anxious for her to notice him. See him.

     Needless to say, it wasn't the way demons looked at hunters.

     Granted, the way Castiel stared at Dean probably wasn't the way angels were supposed to look at hunters either.

     Her forehead hitting the bar top revealed no insights.

     "Who is at the table with your mother?" Jody slides onto the other barstool.

     "That's my brother," Georgia says, words muffled against the wood. "I can't believe you're wearing your uniform. You know what it does to him."

     "Maybe that's what I'm going for," the sheriff responds, nodding thanks to Benny when he places a water in front of her.

     "Then I'll remind you, again, that you're better off bashing his face in with a brick. You can write, 'Hey, I think you're foxy' on it. Then he'll take the hint," Georgia says.

     "His face is 90% of his appeal," Jody grins. "What good would smashing it in do me?"

     "Please," Georgia grouses, annoyed. "It was that tie and sweater vest, don't even front. And you're in love with his sexy, sexy brain and all that brain goo that makes him so fucking smart."

     "You're in a mood. Sullen teenager doesn't look good on you, little lady. I have half a mind to check your I.D.," Jody teases. "Now, my unparalleled powers of perception tell me that you're upset about the dish chatting up your mom so who is he?"

     "A demon."

     Jody shrugs. "He's attractive though, right? He's hot."

     Georgia grunts in response. "Maybe I'll just go talk to him," Jody is halfway out of her seat when Georgia's hand flashes out and pulls her back down. " _No_ , you're not intrigued by him at all."

     "I'm trying to figure out what kind of scam he and his friend are running."

     "You meet the blue-eyed, equally good-looking though somewhat innocent, hunk your brother just left with? Because you know who that is."

     "The angel who saved Sam, does mom tell everyone everything, geez," Georgia says. "So what's he doing hanging out with a demon?"

     "I know you've been out of the game a while, college and all, but maybe you should just ask him. Flip your FBI badge that I totally don't know about and a wink."

     "'Out of the game,' excuse me? I salted three ghosts on campus last semester alone. Out of the game. Please. And I don't want to talk to him."

     "Here," Jody says brightly and grabs a napkin and pen. "I'll make it easy on you."

     She writes out: DO YOU LIKE ME? in block letters and adds two boxes with YES beside the top one and NO beside the bottom.

     "Oh, I'm sorry," she says at Georgia's unimpressed sneer as she crumbles the napkin in her hand. "I thought immature is what we were going for?"

***

     "So what are you doing hanging out with an angel?" John asks, reeling back from Mary when she swipes at him with a mortified, "John!"

     "We've got a common enemy," Crowley explains, looking to Sam for assistance and finding none. If anything, the grin he's sporting says he's going to enjoy watching John Winchester interrogate Crowley. Their entertainment is cut short when Mary says, "John, Sam. Why don't you grab a drink? Elsewhere."

     "But-" John protests. Mary raises her eyebrows in challenge.

     John and Sam head to the bar, grumbling the whole way.

     "I see she learned that from you," Crowley mutters under his breath but Mary chuckles.

     "You can ask her to dance. I know John looks like a big bear."

     "Oh, John, of course there's John. But there's also Dean and Sam. Benny's been giving me the stare down since I walked in. Castiel would take a swing. I imagine Adam's about. Then there's Georgia herself, not to mention you," Crowley straightens. "Why am I blathering on like this?"

     "It's a mom thing," Mary shrugs, pushing her blonde hair back from her neck.

     "Not in my experience," Crowley mutters into his now empty glass. He doubts Benny will be by for a refill and he certainly isn't going up to the bar where Georgia is now surrounded by her father, brother and the sheriff he had a not-so-datey-date with. He squints at Mary, "You should be warning me off, shaking a broom at me."

     "If I thought you were a threat to her, maybe. What do most parents want for their children? Someone who makes them happy, watches over them, keeps them safe and secure. My daughter could do a lot worse than the King of Hell."

     It takes Crowley a beat for her words to sink in. "You weren't doing errands at all."

     "I have more years hunting under my belt than anyone in this bar, including John. You'll find there's not a lot I don't know," Mary says with just a hint of menace. "That's a mom thing too."

     Crowley would never, ever admit it to anyone, but he was developing a bit of a crush on Mary Winchester.

     "No one's ever seen you topside, Crowley," Mary says. "As far as I can tell, and believe me I was looking for any reason to send you back when I saw you mooning after Georgia, you run a clean ship. You don't cause any unnecessary problems. We can't stop humans from being stupid and making deals, but your demons keep them fair. Someone has to hold the throne and I'd rather have a strategist than a tyrant."

     "It's not the life for her," Crowley shakes his head, watching the blonde girl popping in and out of view as dancers pass in front of him. He considers the last words Georgia said to him, ages ago now, long before she'd allowed herself to be taken prisoner. "She deserves better."

     "Maybe that's for her to decide," Mary squeezes at his forearm.

     "That's the trouble," Crowley says. "She already did."

***

     Yet he finds himself crossing the dance floor and approaching her anyway.

     John passes him on the way back to the table and graces him with a fatherly glare. He's five feet away now, closing the distance, as she turns and catches his eye. And Crowley, who has faced Godstiel and Winchesters, who offered Dick Roman a basket of borax-laced muffins, who won a verbal battle with Abaddon, blanches and veers away, coming to rest at Sam's arm, on the far side of Georgia.

     "Coward," Sam says under his breath. "The only way we get out of here is if she remembers who she is, that's on you. So get it together and stop being afraid of her."

     "How?" Crowley whispers back.

     "She got your attention the first time somehow, use that."

     "She was gorgeous and she beat me, not helpful."

     "Ask her to dance, ask her to a movie, ask her to the shooting range."

     "You're an idiot, Moose," Crowley hisses back and then straightens. He doesn't actually have a better plan and the excuse to touch her, get close to her, is right there and he'd be stupid not to take it. He leans around Sam and places a tentative hand on Georgia's shoulder. "Dance with me."

     It lilts, just barely, at the end. Enough to nearly sound like a request.

     "I don't know this dance," Georgia says but doesn't shrug off his hand. "Maybe Jody would..."

     "As lovely as she is," he winks at Jody who blushes. "I want to dance with you."

     "Go on, George," Jody betrays her and shoves her into him. "What's the harm?"

     "Bad choice, Mills," Georgia says.

     Jody hits her with a smirk and crosses her arms.

     Georgia shoves the graffitied napkin into Sam's hand and tells him, "This is from Jody."

     Then she hauls Crowley away from the furious sheriff and bemused Sam.

***

     Dean swings his car keys around his fingers, doing his best to ignore the thready beat of his heart and the nest of bees swirling in his stomach. He leads Cas through the parking lot, ready to tell him which car to get into but when he turns Cas is already approaching the passenger side of the Impala.

     He waits a moment, until blue eyes focus back on him to say, "Uh?"

     "Is this not your car?" Cas asks. "It was parked outside of your shop."

_Oh, right._ Dean shakes his head and unlocks the door, unable to stop himself from brushing his arm against Cas's. He circles the car, unlocks his door and slides into the seat, unsurprised to find that it does look like Cas belongs there. The dark-haired man reaches forward and runs his fingers over the dash, small grin pulling at his mouth. Dean starts the Impala, _Zeppelin III_ blasting from the speakers, so he has to scramble to turn it down. He eases the car from the parking lot, heading along main street toward his destination.

     "Sorry about that. So uh, I'm not being creepy or anything, I wanted to actually get a chance to talk to you, you know? Without the majority of my family making commentary like we couldn't hear them."

    "I like your family," Cas explains. "And I don't find this...creepy."

     "Really? I could be taking you back to my murder house."

     "Are you?" Cas asks.

     "Well, no."

     "Then?"

     Dean doesn't reply, just gives Cas another smile as he parallel parks at his destination. Cas exits the car obediently, taking in their surroundings with a mixture of awe and sadness. "In order for there to be a murder house, there would have to be a house."

     "There used to be one," Dean says. "Now it's a garden."

     Cas disregards the small sign stating the the park is closed and steps over the knee high fence.

     His Grace is everywhere. In the dirt, the ferns, the asters and delphiniums. Sunflowers and yarrow, zamites which had been extinct for ages. The small acre and a half plot was dripping, overflowing with plants and flowers, all fanning out from a gigantic weeping willow dominating the back corner. Cas runs his fingers over the petals and vines, plucks a white daisy from the base of the tree and lets his Grace buzz around him. But it's dormant, dead, a remnant of a fallen angel, and it feels...fake, somehow. More than the rest of the universe they're in.

     "This is where the nursery was," Dean leans against the weeping willow. "This is where you died."

     Cas's head snaps up and the daisy falls to his feet. "You knew?"

     Dean buries his hands in his pockets and hangs his head in embarrassment. "Not at first. I figured maybe two guys with that name, not unusual. But then...it was you, wasn't it? You're the angel who saved Sam."

_No_ , Cas wants to say. "In a manner of speaking. I'm not an angel any longer."

     "What are you doing back now, then? Some kind of greatest hits tour?"

     "Something like that," Castiel agrees, thinking of the house that sat here. Two stories, white, with a brick walkway, hand-laid, that led to John and Mary not speaking to each other for a week. When Dean thought of home, he saw this house. Not the bunker, not Lisa's, not a string of dingy hotel rooms and nights in the Impala. He carried relics with him, old pictures and a feeling, but nothing Cas could do could replicate the home that once stood here--destined to be destroyed no matter the universe. "I suppose I wanted to...check in. I feel a certain responsibility for you."

     "Well shit, of course," Dean says. "If anything had happened to Sammy that night, if anything had happened to any of us..."

_It_ _would_ _destroy_ _you_ , Cas knows. _It_ _did_. _It_ _has_. _And_ _I'm_ _expected_ _to_ _drag_ _you_ _back_ _to_ _that_ _world_.

     "This was stupid," Dean scrubs his hand against his mouth. "What the hell was I thinking, bringing you here? 'Hey, man. Let me take you back to the place you freaking died.' Real sexy, Dean. Good work."

     "No, no," Cas placates him with a look. "I wanted to see it."

_Because_ _I_ _thought_ _it_ _may_ _still_ _be_ _active_ , _but_ _it's_ _not_. _Perhaps_ _I_ _could_ _replenish_ _myself_ _and_ _use_ _it_ _to_ _save_ _you_ , _but_ _I_ _can't_. _Because_ _you're_ _flustered_ _and_ _blushing_ _and_ _I_ _have_ _to_ _remember_ _you're_ _not_ _my_ _Dean_ _and_ _all_ _I_ _want_ _is._..

     "So you die and come back as a person? Isn't that a little backwards?" A car turns down the street, headlights flashing behind Cas, surrounding him in a bright halo of light and for a moment Dean's out of place, breathless and scared in a barn as Castiel walks toward him.

     "I suppose there's a certain justice to it. At the time," _before_ _I_ _met_ _you_. "I never wanted to be anything else. Angels are...there's no describing it. Everything is orderly and uniform and there's no choice, not really, but there's so much power that you hardly notice."

     "And how's humanity working out for you?" Dean asks, fighting to place the vision.

     Cas huffs out a laugh and it clouds in the air between them. "It's painful and dirty and traveling anywhere seems to take ages. Though equally indescribable, I'd say, in the best possible way. There's cheeseburgers and beds and humans."

     "Beds," Dean says to himself. "So hey-"

_Nope_ , Dean thinks. _Don't_. _Not_ _like_ _this_.

     "What I actually wanted to say, when I brought you here," he lifts his chin, meeting Cas's gaze. "Was thank you. Thank you for saving my brother."

***

     Dropping Cas off at the hotel and driving away is nearly impossible. Dean has to pep-talk himself the entire drive out to the house, all the way up his dirt walkway and even as he unlocks the door, checks the wards and changes clothes. He lays in the full-size bed, the same one he's had since high school, and knows that it was the right call. Even though the small bed was suddenly large and cold, even though dancing so close had keyed him up, Dean knows he made a good choice.

     When sleep comes, it's choppy and hay-wire. Dean fights to be able to open his eyes, flicks a lighter and punches through dark earth into the light. Cas is there, yelling, shouting, unmoving but impossibly far away. Sam pulls Dean against him, a relieved sigh brushing his neck as Sam's arms crush him. Georgia and Crowley sit on thrones of dark wood, the shackle on Georgia's ankle has cut into her skin. Mary and John stand together, holding hands, as the house erupts in flames of orange.

     Dean wakes in a cold sweat with the single thought that Cas had left his trench coat at the bar.

     Jeans and a shirt are picked haphazardly from the floor and he tugs his boots on and is in the Impala and down the road before he realizes this is nuts. It's three in the morning, the bar has been closed for hours, but Dean jimmies the door open and sidles inside. The coat has fallen between the booth and the wall, missed by his family, and Dean tugs it out, shaking it. It smells like soap and Old Spice and if Dean spends a few moments with it pressed against his face, no one needs to know.

     He's back in the Impala and screeching to a stop outside the hotel and wondering just what in the fuck he was doing. He knocks impatiently at the door and if his brain had been logged on he wouldn't have been so surprised by the Angel blade that's leveled at him.

     "Dean?" Cas says, lowering the weapon and casting glances around the abandoned parking lot. "Are you okay?"

     "You forgot your coat," Dean says, holding it out. "I just...you need your coat."

     "Thank you," Cas says, taking it from him. "I-I meant to go back but...thank you."

     "Take care of that," Dean commands, backing away toward the Impala. He shouts over his shoulder, "I've been hauling it around for months."

     Cas stares at the tail lights, trench coat hugged to his chest. "What was that?"

     "That," Crowley finishes the pyramid of tiny bottles he's created. "Is Squirrel's mind beginning to collapse."

     "We need to fix this," Cas states. "Now."

***


	15. Sometimes It's Hard Waiting for the Day

     To say Dean is mortified is an understatement. He thought he could block it out, ignore the batshit way he'd driven to Cas's hotel room  _in the middle of the night_ to return a freaking coat that no one was going to trash anyway. But waking up the next morning, fully dressed, boots caked in mud, well, he couldn't pretend the whole thing had been a dream. He's still berating himself the entire drive to the shop, he's short with the barista at the coffee place, and he trips over absolutely nothing and sloshes the coffee down the front of his shirt anyway. He knows it's going to be a horrible day, unsalvagable, just plain rotten and terrible and the world is the worst and nothing good will ever...

     Cas looks up from his book when the bell chimes over the door, biting back a smile at Dean's surprise. He's tucked against the front window in a tacky, Victorian monstrosity of a chair covered in pale purple velvet that Georgia had deemed "delightfully absurd" and Dean had called "uglier than Crocs." Georgia had won the arm-wrestling match that ensued and had hauled the chair into the shop herself, bright satisfaction painted across her face.

     The chair is abruptly Dean's most favorite piece of furniture in the known universe simply because Cas is sitting in it. "I hope you don't mind," he says, voice sleep-cracked and steady. "Georgia let me in early."

     "Anything for pretend hunters," Dean teases.

     "Rough morning?" Cas asks, indicating Dean's shirt and his embarassment returns ten-fold.

     "You could say that." He pops upstairs and cleans himself up, grabbing a random shirt from the bug out bag he keeps stashed here and tugs it on over his damp henley. He takes a few minutes to regroup, deciding the best way to apologize to Cas, explain that he's not insane just prone to nightmares that leave him a little shaken. And if he sometimes has to call Sam at two in the morning to make sure his little brother is okay, that's normal hunter behavior. And if he's shown up at his parents house on more than one occasion, certain Mary had been killed, whatever. His family took it all with understanding. They had the same nightmares after all, the same fears, they just seemed better at hiding them.

     When he returns to the shop, Cas has four cups of coffee waiting at the register along with a container of muffins.

     "You shouldn't be using those angel powers like that, you might get flabby," he flips the CLOSED sign to OPEN.

     The corner of Cas's mouth lifts in a smirk. "I'm not an angel and we don't get flabby. I  _walked_ across the street and bought them, you seemed like you could use it."

     "Thank you," Dean mutters and then sighs. "Listen, about last night...I don't know why I did that."

     "Returned my coat?" Cas asks, marking his page with a finger and closing the book. "I said I appreciate it."

     "No, I know. But you would have appreciated it more at, say, a normal time."

     Cas bites his lip, considering his next words carefully. "What did you mean, that you'd been carrying it for months?"

     Dean freezes. "I-I can't really explain that."

     "Have you been having strange dreams?" Cas presses.

     "No stranger than usual," he shrugs. "It all gets kind of warped, you know? Like, and please don't be creeped out and you're going to say you aren't but you are, you show up a lot. Well not  _you_ you. It was the coat, that's why...I didn't have a face for you. I saw your coat that night in the nursery and it just kind of stuck."

     "I'm in your dreams?" he repeats. But Castiel knows that can't be right, it couldn't have been Jimmy Novak's body in the nursery that night. Jimmy was just a few years older than Dean, still a mere child when Azazel came for Sam. Mary had recognized the voice, hadn't she, not the man.

     "Not in a creepy stalker way," Dean explains.  _And not in a sexy way, at least not yet. "_ It's like you're always around, or you've always been here. Which, kinda, you have. I am not making myself look great here, I'm sorry."

     "Like you've known me for years, maybe?" Cas leans over the counter, breaching Dean's space. The hunter doesn't back away. "I understand what you mean. It seems as if we've known each other decades. Lifetimes."

     "Right!" Dean agrees, relieved that he's not alone here. "You like cheeseburgers and good water pressure," he says, focusing on the far bookshelves rather than Cas's blue eyes. "You prefer blades to bullets and uh..."  _You taste like toothpaste and gas station coffee._

 That thought had come from nowhere, blurry like the pixelated pictures that suddenly become a sailboat when you look at them just right. But once it's in his brain, Dean can't unthink it, can't unknow that he's completely correct. If he leaned across this counter and slanted his lips over Castiel's, he would taste like spearmint toothpaste, refreshing and tingly, and coffee, bitter and warm. _  
_

     And now, of course, because he has to know that he's right, Dean shifts forward dropping whatever book he'd picked up to look busy and fitting his palm against the rough stubble of Cas's jaw, fingertips just brushing the hair behind his ear. Cas exhibits no surprise, doesn't back away, he doesn't close the distance between them. He simply waits, chapped lips slightly parted, to see what Dean will do.

     He traces Cas's bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, certain of he shape of it, the feel of it against his own. As if he's somehow done this before, studied this man so closely he knows that when their mouths meet, Cas's shoulders will drop, draining their tension and he'll sigh. And he'll bring his right hand up to Dean's shoulder, gripping tight...

     So when he finally kisses him and Cas's shoulders sink and his palm slides from his elbow to bicep, Dean lets out a victorious growl.

     "Dean?" Cas asks, a few minutes later when Dean remembers that he runs a respectable business and there's a furnished apartment upstairs and he could just flip the sign to CLOSED.

     The angel is rapidly cataloguing the blush on his cheeks and the sappy grin he can't wipe away. Dean steadies himself on the register before saying, "Can I take you out?"

     Cas's heart sinks. Dean doesn't remember.

     He nods in the affirmative before returning to the purple chair. He waits until Dean goes to the back to heat up his coffee before allowing the panic to sink in. Dean was remembering things, important things, but it wasn't enough. Castiel had had no fairytale fantasies that True Loves Kiss was going to solve all of their problems, though it would have been nice to catch a break for once.

      _The coat,_ he thinks, faking a smile when Dean returns.  _The coat is a trigger. The coat is the key._

***

     "I guess I'm not seeing the problem?" Sam asks, barely looking up at Georgia. He'd made a half-assed attempt to help her with the boxes but she'd waved him off so he'd contented himself with reading and staying out of her way.

     "He just keeps giving me stuff. He showed up the other day, what was it? Tuesday, when I walked in on Dean and Castiel making out over the counter. I'm just trying to get coffee, not asking for a lot but they're having a moment so I decide to bide my time in here, well, in walks Crowley. Who gave him a key to this door?"

     "It certainly wasn't me," Sam says even though it totally was. "What did he bring you?"

     "Some stones on Tuesday. Wednesday it was flowers. And not like roses or sunflowers like normal people, these were like weird curly sticks and a thistle-y thing and I think they might actually be from Hell. On Thursday he brought Juliet a rawhide, which I thought was kind of sweet. Then, on Friday, he brought me this really sick knife, so cool. It's made out of an old jaw bone or something," Georgia rattles on while Sam keeps his poker face in place.

     "What does he say about it?" Sam asks.

     Georgia looks even more annoyed, brushing hair out of her face. "He just shrugs and says, 'They made me think of you.' Then he leaves."

     "So do you not like the gifts or that he leaves?"

     "I don't understand what's happening!" Georgia says. "I mean, the things are cool, definitely. And I always say thank you because I'm thirty percent sure he's been talking to mom and she'll kick my ass if she finds out I was a jerk but...what kind of game is this?"

     Sam remembers this game. The uncertainty of a new relationship, not knowing where you stood. Jessica, bless her, had been frank and upfront. She'd waited patiently while he'd drawn the courage to ask her out but it had been her who had initiated their first kiss that night and made it very clear when Mandy Armstrong made a move, that Sam was her boyfriend, thank you very much, and get your hands off him. There had been no back and forth with Jessica, they were all in from the beginning.

     There was uncertainty again, now, with Jody (the one in the real world, he had to remind himself). The feelings were obvious on both sides, though never discussed. And the holding back was due more to Sam's commitments to Dean and his desire to keep Jody safe. It wasn't particularly sustainable, he knew. A choice would have to be made at some point.

     "I don't think there's a game," he says. The bizarro world they'd been tossed into had thrown him for a loop in more ways than one. In the real world, Dean was so careful while Georgia loved with abandon. Here though, it was Dean making moon eyes and meeting Cas for lunch everyday while Georgia wondered why Crowley was paying her any attention at all. "Maybe he just likes you."

     "Well tell him to knock it off."

     "You don't like him?" Sam asks.

     "I don't get why someone like him would be interested in someone like me, okay?" she mutters, shrugging like she's not bothered.

     "Because you're awesome and beautiful and you could kill him in forty-two ways and they would all hurt?" Sam suggests. "Look, as your older brother, he can fuck off. I don't like him, I'll never like him and he's useless. But...Crowley is actually a pretty decent guy and you could do worse. He'll treat you like a queen, you know, worship you."

     "Yeah," Georgia agrees. "That's a lot of pressure."

***

     "Please tell me someone has an idea?" Sam asks the next morning, sliding into the diner booth across from Crowley and Cas. "It's been two weeks."

     Cas shakes his head, equally stunned that things aren't progressing. He had searched his extensive memory of interactions with Dean, slipping in gestures and sayings of importance, anything that may trip the spell.

     His discussion of profound bonds had done nothing more than cause Dean to chuckle nervously and cough.

     Telling Dean that cheeseburgers made him very happy prompted Dean to pull him into an impromptu makeout session. Cas couldn't find it within himself to be particularly upset about that.

     His abrupt use of 'assbutt' when a book had fallen on his foot had resulted in heartly laughter and painted his own cheeks a deep crimson.

     It had also led to a fair bit of kissing but Cas lets himself focus on the TV tucked in the corner of the shop rather than that. It wasn't cheating, exactly. Dean was still Dean. Dean still liked Cas without the benefits of his memory but something about it didn't sit right with the angel. He had all this knowledge about Dean's likes and dislikes but Dean was learning everything for the first time.  _Dr. Sexy_ was playing but the sound was too low for Cas to follow the story. Cowboy Boot Doctor and Brunette Lady Doctor were arguing-no kissing-no arguing again, while investigating some kind of busted down warehouse.

     "Crowley?" Sam tries.

     "I'm doing all the strange things she did. Bringing me rubbish, popping up unexpectedly. If anything she's more skittish. To be fair so was I."

     "Because she was showing an interest in you?" Sam asks.

     "I didn't get to be King by rubbing elbows with everyone who bats their eyelashes at me, I was skeptical. She was seventeen-nearly-eighteen, beautiful as all sin, she had a terrifying father and she brought me flowers. Why wouldn't that appear a bit fishy?" Crowley says. "I expected poisoning and a coup. She kept asking me to dinner."

     "Maybe you're both being too subtle or maybe just a really good knock to the head. Are there any actual hauntings around? We'll hit them and then say the ghost did it."

     "Getting a bit desperate, Moose?"

     "Maybe you're picking happy memories and they should be sad ones. Or bad memories instead of good. Maybe it's time we just tell them and hope their brains don't implode all over the bookstore. This is getting stupid. Cas and Dean are macking on each other every twenty minutes and Georgia is hiding out at the cabin and...and..." Sam collapses on the table, resting his forehead on his arms. "I'm avoiding Jody."

     "We can't all have relationship troubles, you were suppose to keep it together. You were our rock," Crowley sighs.

     "I just don't want any wires crossed, okay? We know Georgia and Dean don't belong here so dragging them out is fine. She's not really Jody. And that's the other thing, I mean, this is supposed to be the perfect world, right? Where we're all happy and everything is rainbows and butterflies?"

     "Your point?"

     "Where's Jessica?"

     The name means nothing to Crowley but Castiel turns to look at Sam. "Jessica."

     "I like Jody, I do. I would like to get to know her better but...but it was always Jessica. Even fucking Lucifer knew that so in my perfect world, spun by Metatron, that none of us ever want to leave, shouldn't she be here?" Sam explains, feeling shame burn in his chest. Jody was not some consolation prize, not second place. She was real and alive and brash and frankly, she scared him just a little. But if Metatron wanted Sam to stay here, Jessica was the way to do it.

     "He didn't know you were coming," Castiel guesses. "The strongest dose of the spell hit Georgia, so her memories were wiped better than Dean's. Perhaps he simply wasn't expecting you."

     "Okay," Sam conceeds. "I'm just saying it's odd. My point is, that's why I'm hiding out. If I go falling for her, we're all going to be stuck here forever. Dean and Cas will be happy and raise 2.5 kids on a big farm, you'll be perpetually stalking Georgia, and Jody and I will have Sunday lunch with my parents every week."

     Castiel zones out again, not interested in the barbs Sam and Crowley are shooting at each other in regards to their respective lack-of-love lives. Cowboy Boot Doctor has wandered off on his own to scout out more of the warehouse. He seems to hear some kind of suspicious noise which turns out to be Brunette Lady Doctor and they have a relieved laugh until they both turn at another noise Cas can't hear. They clutch each other, delving further into the darkness of the building, around some shelves. They start again, not laughing this time, makeup-caked faces showing surprise.

     There's a man standing in the middle of the warehouse.

     "Turn that up," Cas demands, yanking the remote from the barista's hand and cranking the volume on the TV.

     "Hey?" Cowboy Boot Doctor says, standing protectively in front of Brunette Lady Doctor. But not so in front that he couldn't throw her in his way if need be.

     "Are you okay?" Brunette Lady Doctor's voice reverberates through the coffee house, high-pitched and whiny.

     "I'd be better," the man says, turning toward the camera dramatically. "If my brother would get me the hell out of here."

     "Your brother?" Cowboy Boot Doctor asks. "Who is your brother? Who are you?"

     He looks straight into the camera, eyebrow arched and whiskey-eyes mean. "They call me Gabriel."

***


	16. If My Wings Should Fail Me, Lord, Please Meet Me with Another Pair

     "Boys!" Mary Winchester greets them, throwing open the door and ushering Castiel and Crowley into the foyer with a pleased grin. "It is really coming down out there, isn't it? I was about to send John out to get you. Did you miss the worst of it?"

     "Thank you, Mrs. Winchester," Castiel said, handing over his coat before gesturing for Crowley to do the same.

     "What?" the King of Hell asks.

     "Your coat," Castiel motions at him.

     Crowley scoffs, pushing past the angel and moving into the living room.

     "Mary, Cas," she says. "Mary."

     "I will do my best," he dips his chin, face brightening when Dean rounds the corner.

     Dean doesn't bother hiding his broad smile, having your tongue in someone's mouth for the better part of the last two weeks will ease most feelings of embarrassment.

     "Oh just look at you two," Mary murmurs, clasping her hands over her mouth.

     And mothers are on the planet to put it right back.

     "Okay, okay," Dean grabs Cas's wrists and pulls him further into the house.

     Castiel hands over the two pies he'd bought from the bakery, Mary fawning over how great they smelled before glaring at Dean and telling him to put his eyes back in his head and wait until dinner. Cas glances around the living room: the built-in bookshelves lined with knick-knacks and family photos along with an assortment of novels, a smattering of weapons in the corner, the TV turned onto sports. Cas slides his finger across one of the frames, the smiling faces of Dean, Bobby and Sam looking up at him. It was a few years old now, Sam's hair not so long and Dean's eyes not so worn. The fireplace is roaring, the scent of woodsmoke and ham making the angel's mouth water even though his interest in food was negligable. John and Crowley are seated in front of the television, whiskey in hand, making approving or disapproving grunting noises depending on the calls.

     "This is my littlest brother, Adam," Dean introduces the young man who shakes his hand firmly before returning to his task of mashing potatoes. "Adam, Castiel. He's home on leave, just got back from overseas."

     "It's nice to meet you, Adam," Cas is unsurprised when there's no recognition in Adam's face. He turns to Mary, "Is there anything I can help with?"

     "Yeah, hey," Sam says from the doorway, arms piled with logs. "Give me a hand?"

     Cas closes the porch door and Sam wastes no time in transfering the logs. "Any thoughts?"

     "He's clearly stuck in some kind of prison. That warehouse is the same one you and Dean trapped him in, I believe there's a ring of Holy Oil though it may not be lit, perhaps it's set to light if he attempts an escape," Cas says, voice hushed. "Dean would have recognized Gabriel so either this is a new development, or he's been trapped in the show the entire time and Dean has ceased his obsession with  _Doctor Sexy."_

"Unlikely," Sam says. "Something just here then. And you said there was no luck with your Grace over at the lot? But it has to be here somewhere, Cas. Georgia was...kind of certain, I guess."

     "It was there, present, but dead. It keeps the garden growing but it's useless."

     "So do we find the warehouse or-"

     "Sam? Cas?" Mary summons them inside for dinner.

***

     "So it's one vampire, and a dumb one at that," Mary is slightly tipsy, retelling the gripping tale of her and John's first date. "John tries one of his Marine moves, breaks the poor thing's wrist. Of course, he's fine two seconds later, healed and all. Oh, the look on John's face..."

     "Mary's father already hated me at this point," John interrupts. "Getting us killed wasn't going to help."

     "I'm trying to get my knife, which is in my coat in the back of the car, but John won't let me around him-"

     "And why," Adam feigns ignorance. "Was your coat  _in the backseat_ of dad's car?"

     "It was a warm day," Mary snaps, dishing out pie and whipped creme which Dean practically inhales.

     "It was a January night," John winks at her.

     "First date," Dean grins at his parents. "I'd give you a pat on the back but I'm incredibly grossed out."

     "I asked," Castiel shushes him, nodding to Mary to carry on. "You eventually got the knife?"

     "After she nearly broke my kneecap getting me to let go of her. Two swipes and the head goes rolling off into the lake, Mary's standing there like goddamn Wonder Woman. I got the mythical creature lesson later but yeah, that's when I knew she was it for me."

     "Much later," Mary says and she and John exchange a look.

      "Ugh," Adam mutters while Georgia throws her hands to her ears yelling, "Earmuffs!"

     Sam bites down on a shaky smile, wanting to smash his parents together in a giant bear hug. Dean lets out a sullen, "My car."

     "Samuel's attitude toward us didn't change," John says carefully. "And we were planning to run away the night of the accident."

     Mary shoots Cas a quick glance before clearing her throat. "I never wanted this lifestyle for you kids. It's dangerous and tough but...John reminded me of a promise I'd made. We had the knowledge and power to help, to really make a difference. It would be a terrible thing to waste that. We decided to set up a base of operations, Winchester Books, and help any hunters around that needed it. It's a tough life but we're good at it, we take care of each other. 

     "Promise?" Crowley asks, taking careful note of the conversation. Georgia had remained remarkably quiet throughout the evening. They'd parted amiably after their dance and she hadn't forced him out during his drop-in's at the bookstore. Granted, she wasn't falling into his lap and reminding him  _that there's good in you, Crowley. Think of what..._

     "When Castiel, well, when I thought he gave his life for us. That kind of sacrifice had to be honored, remembered."

     Cas dips his head, emotion welling in his chest, when Dean comes to his rescue.

     "On that note, Cas and I were going to head out."

     "Where are you boys off to?" John asks. He feels the need to give the Father Talk to one of them but can't decide if it's Castiel or Dean. The angel watches his oldest boy as if Dean is the planet that Cas revolves around, like he not only hung the moon but was the sun that made it shine. And Dean for his part, no matter how sneaky he thinks he's being, has either kept his arm thrown around the back of Castiel's chair or his hand resting on the angel's knee. He decides to save the majority of his threat for Crowley, merely offering Dean and Cas each their own glare.

     Dean stutters. "Oh, just...I mean, I thought I might take him up to Palmer's Field, uh..."

     There is an extended moment of silence and Dean waits for the fall out. His family does not disappoint.

    "Ohhhhhh," Georgia drags out the word, elbowing at her father while he jostles her back with an, "Aww!"

     "So it is like that," Adam sighs, passing John a five dollar bill.

     Sam just beams at them.

***

     "I was thinking about running away from home," Dean says, shifting into drive and peeling away from the house. He knows Mary is watching from the porch, probably dabbing at her eyes, giving those inside a moment to collect themselves before she returns to give them hell for laughing at her precious baby boy.

     "You're far too old," Castiel points out, laughing in the passenger seat as Dean swerves onto a gravel road, not bothering with speed limits. "And your mother is a Bloodhound. She'd find you in three hours. Two, I'll bet."

     "She's probably bribing one of them to follow us up here. Her interest in my love life is bordering on creepy."

     "Love life?" Cas asks, face carefully blank. When Dean sputters for something to say Cas cuts him a break. "So running away. Where to?"

     "What?"

     "If you could go anywhere, just take the Impala and go, where would it be?"

     Dean stays quiet for so long that Cas begins to think he's asked the wrong thing, pried too far. "Everywhere," Dean finally says, mind miles away from the lines flashing before him on the pavement. "We never got to travel as kids. The store, all that, kept us around Lawrence. Even on hunts, you roll into town, gather information, take care of business and roll out, not a lot of time for touristy stuff. I think," he pauses. "Everywhere and nowhere in particular. Maybe pick a band, follow 'em on tour. Throw a dart at an atlas and just go. There's a lot to be said for growing roots but...but sometimes I feel like I was meant to..."

     "Ramble on?" Cas suggest when Dean lapses into silence.

     The hunter nods once before coughing. "What about you? Nevermind, that's stupid. You're a goddamn angel, you've been alive forever and seen everything. I can't imagine there's a lot that would hold your interest, surprise you even."

     "You're wrong," Cas says as the Impala rolls to a stop. Dean kills the engine but waits patiently for Cas to finish his thought. "I find nothing but surprises here, miracles even. Everything is so complex, captivating. I spent ages on Earth invisible, not able to feel or connect but when I did, it was like lightning. Everything was too much but I couldn't get enough. Watching people, learning how they interact, what's important to them, what they think of the world. There are insects that keep your entire ecosystem from collapse and yet humans will spend tens of minutes worrying about the color of shirt they wear. I have never been more confused, so completely confounded, and absolutely blessed in my entire existence."

     "I must seem pretty stupid to you," Dean supposes he can drive away, pretend he wasn't taking Cas anywhere. He knew what Cas was, he wondered at what Cas must think of him, but knowing he saw him as the flawed human he was didn't sit well.

    "Stupid? No, never that. You're brave and selfless, reckless and headstrong, you're remarkable, Dean." Cas can see him beginning to panic, accepting honest praise was not easy to him. So Cas winks and adds, "But you are right. You are very pretty."

     It works, Dean blinks as Cas's words register and he shoves the angel toward the passenger door. "Get out, dick."

     "You're also quite witty," Cas adds, rounding the front of the car to stand in the headlights with Dean.

     "You won't crack as many jokes when you realize I've brought you to my murder house," Dean tugs the angel's sleeve, pulling him along behind him. He doesn't lead them toward the low-lit cabin in the distance, instead he takes a separate path down a short ditch and then south. Cas follows obediently, the rush of crickets and cicadas masking the quiet rustle of wind through tall grass.

     There's a roiling feeling in Cas's gut, like the second before his wings pull him into flight. The moment of weightlessness, of freedom, before the actual work of keeping him airborn kicks in. It intensifies when Dean slips his hand from his coat to his hand, palm warm though shaking slightly. Dean has walked this path a thousand times, Cas realizes. The hunter has no flashlight and though the moon is full it's not yet risen completely, a silver dollar embedded in the treetops. This place is important to him and he's choosing to share it with Castiel.

     They climb a slight rise, both huffing before Cas's breath is stolen completely.

      _The barn._

     "This way," Dean tugs his hand but Cas may as well be a wall. The angel is shell-shocked, staring at the whitewashed barn in disbelief. That barn did not belong in Lawrence, did not belong in Kansas. It was still standing, though barely, in an overgrown field in Pontiac, Illinois. "Oh that. We used it to practice our sigils. Bobby left us the cabin and land before he moved. We learned everything out here," Dean leads him to the doors, unwrapping a chain from the handles and pushing the door open. He knocks the dust from a breaker box and hits the lights.

     It isn't the same barn, Cas knows, because this isn't real and it isn't here and the bulbs aren't broken. But it's such a good imitation that he half-expects to see Dean and Bobby, rifles raised, the young hunter standing protectively between them.

     "We'd each get a can and dad would call out a monster or demon or whatever," he gestures to the graffiti work. "We started running out of room so the contest became who could tag the most ridiculous spot. Georgia's got her initials up on the rafters. Sam says he didn't boost her up but I doubt it. Adam actually tagged dad's jacket once and he didn't notice for days. Hilarious."

     Heat lightning flashes on the horizon and Cas turns, fixing his solemn gaze on the hunter. If he showed his wings now, insubstancial as they were, would it trigger Dean? Would he remember that moment, years ago, as clearly as Cas did? He flexes his shoulders, ready to try when Dean interrupts.

     "C'mon, outside. We're gonna miss it."

      _Do it. You have to. He has to remember and you have to go back. If you follow him it's no more than selfishness._

    Cas settles his wings and follows Dean into the dark and to the edge of the lake.

     "What are we waiting for?" he asks interlacing his fingers with Dean's, deciding to see where his bad choices will take him

     "Shh," Dean says.

     Cas is silent for three minutes. "Dean, it's a-"

     "Shh," Dean shushes him again, this time with more force.

     The angel wants to enjoy the soft laping of the water on the beach, the buzz and hum of the insects around them, the grass swishing against the boards of the deck. The errant thought that Dean actually may be waiting to kill him makes him chuckle and he tries to hide the shaking of his shoulders but Dean isn't fooled.

     "Dean-"

     "Oh for fuck's sake," Dean rolls his eyes, shutting the angel up the only way he knows how. Cas's mouth is chilled from the cool night air but his body is warm beneath the trench coat. Castiel's wastes no time pulling the hunter closer, slipping his hand against the heated skin of Dean's back. He's content to stay like this, forever if need be, and is just beginning to wonder if this was Dean's plan all along when the light makes him pull away.

     For the second time that night, Cas is left reeling. He stares out over the water, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, trapped between starting for the lake and bolting for the car.

     "They don't know what it is," Dean says quietly beside him. "It's a spring so there must be something in the soil or the water. No one knows what makes it light up like that."

     But Cas does.

     Because like northern lights and glowing plankton, the entire lake shimmers and shifts. The beams radiate into the darkened night sky and deep into the depths of the water, brilliant and intense and a beautiful, breathtaking, glimmering bloom of blue.

     His Grace had hidden itself in this dimension, and Dean Winchester had found it.

     "Hey, hey, hey," Dean slings an arm around Cas's chest, pulling the angel back inches from the water. "What are you doing?"

     Cas comes to, disoriented, and allows Dean to steer him along, squinting against the glare of the water. "What?"

     "You zoned out on me, went marching toward the water."

     "Oh," Cas can feel his Grace calling to him, urging him. And he knows, he  _knows_ the moment he touches it, the moment he gets his power back he can simply tap Dean on the forehead and remind him of the world they belong in. Another fork in the road and he should choose the right path because he'd chosen the selfish one before but the stricken look on Dean's face gives him pause. "I'm sorry?"

     "Don't," Dean stops and considers. "Don't go in there, okay? It's just to look at."

     "Okay," Cas agrees, shaking his head to clear it as much as expressing disappointment in himself. "I won't."

     Dean had never brought anyone here. Georgia didn't come to the lake, keeping to her hideout at the cabin, but Dean had been making the trip more and more. The spring was soothing in a way the shop wasn't, comforting, peaceful. He didn't fish here, always managing to get halfway before realizing he'd forgotten the poles. He just liked to sit at the end of the dock, wait for the sun to set, and let the cool, blue glow envelope him.

     It was something to share with Cas, something like the garden that the angel would find a miracle or whatever. But as Cas had taken the first halting step toward the water, Dean's chest had compressed, lungs failing like he'd run a quarter of a mile at a dead sprint only to arrive seconds too late. It was like a reoccuring nightmare he could never quite recall, all he knew was that he had to keep Cas away from the water.

     "Promise?" Dean asks.

     "I promise," Castiel lies.

***

     Castiel makes the trip back to the spring alone. Crowley had been at the hotel room when Dean had dropped him off, Cas too shaken to part with more than a quick kiss and a "see you later." There was likely not going to be a later. Or there was, but not here. And the chances of Dean being upset with him, betrayed by him, were astronomical. Sam had been at the hotel, watching _Doctor Sexy_  reruns with the King of Hell, and put up no fight when Cas had asked to borrow his car.

    "Everything alright?" Sam had asked, walking Cas to the car.

    "Not particularly," Cas answered, trying to be honest with at least one Winchester tonight. "Any luck with Gabriel?"

    "Kind of," Sam admitted. "The episode we caught in the cafe is the first where we see Gabriel, everything before that were wide or dark shots of someone standing in the warehouse. He's obviously talking to us, unless Doctor Sexy's name is actually Samsquatch. Real nice. I've written down the ingredients he's listed and looked up the possible spells so I'm narrowing it down. We'll have to wait until we're back in our world to try it though, pull him back where he needs to be. Am I to assume that would be sooner rather than later?"

     The way Cas had driven off had been answer enough.

     With numb determination, he follows the muddy path to the spring's edge and on into the water. If he stops, if he hesitates, he isn't certain he can make himself continue. His Grace lights up brighter as his boots breach the water, swarming around him like butterflies and waterbugs, eager and excited. The cool water soaks his knees, drags at his coat and Cas can't help but recall the last time he'd done this. His body hadn't been in his control, the Leviathan had believed him dead, and they'd led him on awkward bones into the reservoir. The water splashes his hips and chest and his arms rise, forcing himself deeper into the lake, deeper into the water, until with a final necessary breath, he submerges.

     It burns and stings as much as it soothes and heals, Grace tears into his skin and bones and hair and cartilage and wings. It strengthens, repairs the scars and fractures and the multitude of internal wounds that stolen Grace ravages on the body. Castiel has to close his eyes against the final brilliant flash of exposed Grace as it burrows it's way back inside him, returning to where it belongs.

     He expects to feel different, removed as he had been before but nothing has changed. He longs for Dean, he wants to call Sam. He feels no urge to return to Heaven for orders or guidence. Everything is as it was, his priorities exactly where they had been. His feelings exactly the same.

     Castiel gives himself a moment to smile before he spreads his wings and throws himself into flight.

***

       It is November 2nd, 1983 and two Castiel's stand in Sam Winchester's nursery. The invisible one, in blue jeans and a sodden trench coat waits by the door, unsurprised when Mary Winchester throws it open.

     What does surprise him is the Castiel facing off with Azazel.

     The vessel of Jimmy Novak stares impassively at the demon. Same black, untidy hair. The thrift-store suit that the young man had donned, unaware that it was the last outfit he would ever choose. But, Cas wonders as he watches himself, Jimmy Novak is a child.

     Mary lunges but Castiel holds up his hand. "Mary Winchester, my name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord. I'm here to save your son."

     Cas spreads his wings again, focusing on the night Mary made the deal, and flies.

     He lands in the nursery and Castiel says, "Mary Winchester, my name is Castiel."

     Cas tries again, the night Anna attacked Mary.

     The nursery again, "Mary Winchester-"

     Further back, wings open, Mary and John's first date.

     The nursery. "Mary-"

     With no where else to go, Cas returns to the present with the sinking feeling that he'd been wrong about everything. Again.

     He calls Sam and fights the panic in his voice.

    "Cas?"

    "Sam," he swallows the boulder in his throat. "When is the last time you saw Bobby?"

    "What?"

    "In this dimension," Cas clarifies. "When did you last see Bobby?"

    Sam thinks for a moment, tapping a pen against his teeth. "A few years, actually. Three, maybe four."

    Cas nods even though Sam can't see him. "And what about Ellen? Or Joanna?"

    "Um, I guess," Sam says. "Five years, something like that. Cas, what's going on?"

    "I'll call you back," Cas promises and hangs up.

     He transports himself to the Winchester house, unsurprised to find the porch light on and John waiting on the steps.

      _It was never an_   _alternate dimension,_ Cas confirms as he makes his way up the brick walkway. Metatron didn't have the power to create something from scratch. He couldn't spin an entire world and the lives within it but he did have access to one place, somewhere perfect. Somewhere no one would ever want to leave.

     It had never been an alternate dimension.

     They were in Heaven.

     More specifically, Cas steps into the foyer and shrugs out of his coat, they were in Mary Winchester's heaven.

***  


	17. She Worries if Their Days Are Few and Soon They'll Have to Go

     Two cups of tea and a tumbler of whiskey are waiting on the coffee table when Castiel seats himself on a chair across from Mary and John. Mary's smile is soft and she keeps her palms pressed to the hot mug, thick grey sweater dwarfing her slender frame.

     "What gave us away?" she asks, friendly.

     Castiel holds his own mug, if only to have something to do with his hands. "Nothing I truly noticed until I retrieved my Grace. I was curious about the night you...the night in the nursery. This vessel should never have been there so I tried to go back but there wasn't anywhere to go. That was the moment this heaven began. But see, heavens are individual, most remain in a stasis of their most cherished memory but you, you built an entire world. An entire life and the people in it...that's practically unheard of."

     Mary winks at him. "Someone owed me big time."

     "And you share?" Castiel asks. "Like Sam and Dean?"

     "We do," John says. "Mary was on her own until I showed up."

     "I didn't speak to him for a year. Before John arrived this was our first date. We'd parked the Impala at the river and watched a meteor shower. I spent ages like that until John traded his life for Dean and he told me...he told me all of it. My poor boys...everything they'd been through, everything they've gone through since then, I was beyond furious. Unfairly, maybe," she admits. "I made the deal, I started all this. John didn't know why Azazel was there, only that something killed his wife and he would go to the end of the earth to find out why. That was my doing and I remember that every time they are in pain."

     "You knew?" the angel asks. "You  _know_?"

     "Of course I do, I'm their mom," she sets her mug down. "You asked why you were in the nursery. This heaven is built around my surviving Azazel. In this world, after the three of you returned to protect us from the angels, you alone went back further. You gave your life because you loved the boys that much. That wasn't fair though, not really. It never crossed my mind what you would come to mean to Sam and Dean, how much being without you would hurt them."

     "I don't know if that's true," Cas says, voice rough.

     John fails to hide an amused cough and rolls his eyes.

     "You know I'm here to take Georgia and Dean back, what happens after we leave?"

     "Things go back to normal," Mary explains. "I didn't realize, initially, what was happening, why you were suddenly here and alive, considering all of this revolves around us, but Hannah told-"

     "Hannah?" Cas mutters, shocked.

     "You think you're the only one friendly with angels," Mary says. "She came to find me before we saw you at the bar. She wanted me to know that Metatron had caused a bit of a breach and they'd be dealing with the problem. And, because I'm a mature adult, I kicked her out and locked the doors in favor of spending some extra time with my kids."

     "You can do that?"

     "It's our heaven," John says. "We can do what we want. That includes growing old with each other and our children. Letting Crowley in. Protecting your Grace when we saw the opportunity to grab it."

      "They aren't," Cas stutters. "What I mean to say is..."

     "It's not really them?" John finishes. "And thank God for that, means they're still kicking, right? It may seem like a shitty deal but until they get here, many, many years from now, I hope...it'll do."

     "They," Cas says. "They may not be able to get here at all. Sam and Dean share, yes. You see, the first sign something was off happened when Sam mentioned Jessica. More importantly, that Jessica wasn't here."

     "Just a lovely girl," Mary frowns. "She'd be proud of him, I think."

     "Jessica's heaven doesn't intersect with yours, nor does Bobby's which was the second clue. You can draw from the living, even those you haven't met, as long as their lives orbit Sam and Dean's. There's no guarantee that they'll come here."

     "You just try and stop me from seeing my kids," Mary counters and Cas holds up his palms.

     "And speaking of," Cas shifts uneasily. "Georgia and Adam."

     "Aren't mine," Mary nods, retrieving a picture from the bookshelf. It's the four of them, taken maybe a year ago. They're dirty and ragged, fresh from a hunt, but smiling broadly, arms thrown around each other. "But they were supposed to be. As much as Azazel's plan was to raise an army of super children, it was also to stop Adam and Georgia from ever being born. Two Winchesters have proven formidable, can you imagine if they'd all been raised together?"

     "So they were always meant to fix it," Cas says quietly. "It's destined to work, then, with the four of them."

     "Oh destiny," Mary waves her hand dismissively. "I like to think of it as 'doing what's right.'"

     "And what will this quest cost them?" Cas wonders. "What price will they pay? And that's considering we survive long enough to attempt the spell. And get Gabriel out from...wherever. Not to mention-"

     "The Mark," John says and Cas grimaces. "I'd say I can't believe he did that, but I can. Half my fault anyway, always drilling into Dean how important it was to protect Sammy. Never crossed my mind that Dean wouldn't find it equally important that Sam be protecting him. Dean had a good head on his shoulders, he didn't need as much coddling as Sammy did. Or so I thought."

     Mary slips an understanding hand against John's forearm before leveling her gaze at Cas. "But you have an idea about the Mark, don't you, Castiel?"

     "A solution was brought to my attention," Cas admits, rubbing at the center of his chest. Perhaps Crowley had planted the idea, but the Winchesters were watering it, earnest sad eyes letting him know he was on the right path. "Getting Dean to agree is going to be nothing short of impossible. Although he is beginning to get desperate."

     "Not that desperate," John huffs.

***

     "I mean," Dean tells Cas over burgers and a shared basket of fries. "I'm all for family fun time but mom's acting like I won't see her tomorrow."

     The metaphorical knife in Cas's heart twists.

     "You okay?" Dean asks, inclining his head toward Cas's half-eaten burger. "You barely touched that."

     "I'm fine," Cas assures him by taking a big bite. It takes like stale air and he wonders why that's the trade off for Grace. "So Georgia finally agreed to a date with Crowley?"

     Dean chuckles, finishing off his burger and balling the foil up. "'Date' might be a bit strong. It seemed more like a kidnapping to me, the 'help me' eyes George was flashing. But she was driving so..."

     "Is this a date?" Cas looks around the diner. It's the same type of greasy spoon the typically frequent. Dean is in his element here, giving the waitress a flirty smile when she refills his coffee and Cas would be jealous except Dean has his ankles locked around Castiel's under the table.

      "Kind of a poor one," Dean admits. "You don't strike me as the fancy restaurant type, neither am I to be honest."

      "I just like spending time with you," Cas tells him offhandedly, offering up the remainder of his burger and Dean digs in gratefully, if only to hide his blush.

     "So, since your warden is busy for the night, how long do I get you?"

      _Forever,_ Cas thinks and the knife twists for an entirely different reason. "I'm yours as long as you'll have me."

     Dean throws a twenty on the table and winks. "Sounds good to me."

***

     "I can't believe your father took my fingerprints," Crowley sighs, looking around the cabin. The quick update from Castiel is still bouncing around in his head. The idea that he, King of Hell, would be allowed in anyone's heaven was absurd. The fact that Mary Winchester, the _real_ Mary Winchester, deemed him worthy was positively mind-boggling. Cas had warned him that angels were working on breaking in and he'd better not get any bright ideas. The thought to muck about with Heaven hadn't even occurred to him, he was embarrassed to admit.  _You really have gone soft._  "My, this is spartan. Did you do the decorating yourself?"

     Georgia leans on the counter next to the stove, hanging her head. "Since no one seems to have gone over dating etiquette with you, making fun of someone's stuff isn't the way to secure a second one."

     "I'm not mocking your things," Crowley says. "I'm mocking your lack of things."

     "I don't need much," she shrugs, dishing stew into two bowls. She hops up on the counter to eat hers, watching him watch the soup skeptically. "What?"

     "I don't eat."

     Georgia cracks her jaw. "You couldn't have mentioned that earlier?"

     "You didn't ask."

     "You said you wanted to go out for dinner."

     "Which you declined."

     "And yet I ended up cooking anyway," she furrows her eyebrows and sets the second bowl on the floor for Juliet. "Your loss."

      "I hardly think heating sludge constitutes cooking."

     "Like you'd know the difference," Georgia bites back. "You don't eat."

     "Doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about."

     There's only the sound of Georgia chewing and Juliet's happy tail thumping on the wood floor as she gazes adoringly between Georgia and Crowley.

     "Well this is exciting," she says after another awkward five minutes. Crowley looks uncomfortable in the little cabin, immaculate suit bold against the wood panels and the flannel curtains, made from the kids' worn out shirts. He stares at her for a beat, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together before dropping his gaze.

     "If you had to tell someone something, something difficult, how would you do it?"

     "Is this the part where you reveal you're an unhinged psychopath?" Georgia asks, turning her back on him to wash out her bowl. "Because I should warn you, Juliet will rip your limbs off before you get halfway across the room."

     Juliet rolls on her back, wriggling in an attempt to get Crowley to rub her tummy.

    "Traitor," Georgia hisses under her breath.

     "I've no intentions of hurting you, Georgia," Crowley starts but his breath catches.

     He'd been going about this the entirely wrong way, he realizes. Georgia didn't trust him because he was being too nice, too friendly. He held the door open for her and said please and thank you and brought flowers to her mother. That wasn't the Crowley she knew, wasn't the one she would recognize no matter the dimension they were in. And didn't that just make sense? She was acting exactly as he had when they first met: cautious, wary, unsure.

     It wasn't until the last time he'd seen her that he'd understood what he'd lost. Long before she'd been escorted into Hell, dripping in chains that couldn't hold her and a smirk on her face that should have warned him that this was all a trick, she'd laid him low with nothing more than a goodbye.

     A gut-wrenching goodbye that had to have been as painful for her to say as it was for him to hear, and that was before he'd been inundated with emotions. So he steels himself and reiterates the speech she'd given him then.

***

     Cas sits in the passenger seat of the Impala. It's parked in the shadow of the barn while they wait for the sun to set and if Dean wants to pretend he's not keeping careful watch on the cabin, that's fine with the angel. They may not get a chance like this, to be still and silent and _rest_ , and Cas will take what he can get. The distance between their hands on the cool leather is closing. They shift intermittently, Cas stretching his legs, Dean popping his shoulder, but slowly and surely, their hands migrate closer.

     "Must think I'm a one trick pony," Dean smiles. "Bringing you up here twice."

     "You like it here," Cas replies and it's not a question.

     "Well yeah, it's alright. It reminds me of, um, Bobby had a cabin," Dean's hand leaves the seat, massaging the tension erupting between his eyes. "I mean, Bobby's cabin. It's our cabin now but...Bobby had a cabin in..."

      His palm drops and he tugs at his collar like there's something missing.

     "Dean?" Cas starts but Georgia's shout has Dean leaping out of the Impala, angel quick on his heels.

***

     "Well," Crowley starts.

      _Meg, possessing some blonde girl, slinks out of bed and shrugs with deliberate slowness into her clothes. Georgia will not drop the handful of bloodstones she'd brought because they reminded her of the greens and reds of his eyes. Her hands shake but she won't give Meg the satisfaction of knowing that it's over. That she finally won._

    "I thought with enough time, you'd come around."

      _The demon sidles by, blowing Georgia a kiss as she goes. The door closes softly where she expects a bang, not that she'd hear it over the fissures of her heart cracking open. Melodramatic, maybe, but she's young. And he knew that. He knew she was young and she'd wanted better from him. Better than the Crowley before her, eyes down and slightly panicked, tugging on his trousers and doing up his belt._ _  
_

     "Get me, see me, want me too," Crowley quotes and Georgia steps away, bumping into the counter.

      _She puts the stones on the dresser, next to the dying wreath of poppies she'd crowned him with and some lipstick that doesn't belong to her. She glances into the mirror, trying to ignore the scratch marks down Crowley's back as he pulls on a shirt, but her eyes are riveted all the same. The image will stay with her. Eight raised welts scoring the length of his skin, claiming him. They'll fade in hours, becoming nothing more than a memory. One she'll recall in a few years time when a permanent matching set is driven into her flesh courtesy of Alastair._

"Want me for real," his voice cracks and he wonders how she kept hers from breaking.

      _The Mark on her arm burns. It's the first time the anger and the pain and the sadness makes it feel like fire ants burrowing into her skin and the Mark blazes, veins lighting up, trailing to her clenched fists. The fury scares her, makes her focus on her breathing and the fact that this isn't the end of the world even though it feels like it is. And even if she had the Blade, here now, in her hand, she wouldn't use it on him. She's ninety-seven percent sure she wouldn't use it on him. Then he wipes lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand and her certainty drops to ninety-six._

     "But I'm treading water and my arms are tired and if I let myself sink...I can't be who I need to be if I'm trailing after you like a simpering child." Georgia's eyes are welling up, tears beginning to fall but she's lost, confused, because the words pull her apart as much as they're meant to stitch her back together. Crowley wants to go to her, tell her it isn't real but he needs her to see, needs her to remember so he can have a chance to fix it.

       _She won't cry now because he'll come console her and if he touches her it's game over. She'll either kill him or kiss him and between his blood on her hands and Meg on his lips, she'd rather end it. End it like an adult with no bloodshed and no promise to still be friends. No threat to sic her dad on him even though that's sounding like a good idea. Cain's under the impression she stopped seeing Crowley months ago._

     "That isn't who I am and it isn't who I want to be. I wanted an equal but that's not what this is." He knows it's not the same. The weeks they spent together here, all of it, is nothing compared to the Hell he put her through. And if they have days or years, minutes or millennia, he will spend every second making it up to her.

      _Georgia takes a final look around the room. She doesn't plan on coming back, not here for certain, and not to Hell if she can manage. She doesn't know that in a few years a brother she's never met is going to die and the other, with so much already burdening his young shoulders, will take on another weight. She doesn't know that Dean will spend forty years in Hell, that he'll break after thirty, and that Sam will exhaust every avenue to save him. She doesn't know that right now, John Winchester is tucking Adam into bed and kissing Kate goodbye while he thinks about the daughter he abandoned in the woods._ _  
_

     "This is just me waiting...and I can't anymore," Crowley forces himself to go on, feeling the ground tilt beneath him and wondering if he has the strength to turn away from her damp face and walk out the door.

_She pats Juliet on the head. Crowley is on the verge of saying something. Defending himself, maybe. Reminding her that he was a demon, untrustworthy and cruel. She snaps her fingers and silences him before he does something as heartbreaking as laugh at her._

     "I won't."

     " _Goodbye, Crowley."_  

     "Goodbye, Georgia."

***

      Cas flashes around the side of the Impala, grabbing Dean by the coat and shoving him against the barn. He'd felt the ripple go through Heaven, Georgia's reality colliding with this one as Crowley made her remember. It will start crumbling soon, even John and Mary unable to keep her here, and Cas is running out of time. Crowley is a few paces away from the cabin when Georgia shouts his name again, throwing open the door and bolting toward him. Dean lunges, trying to break out of the angel's grasp, trying to get to his upset sister so Castiel tightens his grip and slams a hand over Dean's mouth when the hunter tries to call out.

     It was such an innocuous moment, one that didn't even register to Castiel until it did.

     Dean knows this. Recalls being forced against the wall of a white room. The trench coat had swished around his calves when Cas had kicked his feet apart. Dean figured this was it. The angels had finally given up on him and because Castiel had screwed up so many of their carefully laid out plans, it only seemed fitting that his punishment be putting an end to Dean. Cas had never been this close, breathing the same air, centimeters of flesh and bone separating what Dean was certain would be the best and last kiss of his life. He was just reaching up to remove the hand when the angel's gaze had shifted and Dean deduced the actual reason for his attack. They were going to save Sam.

     That was the moment Cas had burrowed into Dean's heart.

     This time, Dean slaps Cas's hand away from his mouth and crushes the angel to his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I forgot, just for a bit. But I knew you were coming," he gasps into the short hairs at the back of Cas's neck. "You said you were, I knew that. I just forgot-"

     And then Cas is gone and so are Georgia and Crowley but John and Mary stand on the porch and Sam unfolds himself from the Impala, looking around confused, no idea how he'd gotten there.

    "Sammy?" Dean asks. "Are you-you have been, haven't you? You've been you the whole time."

    "Yeah, hey," Sam claps Dean on the shoulder. "C'mon. We only have a few minutes. Cas is holding it open."

     Sam tugs him along and Dean's chest constricts at the sight of his parent's smiling faces. There are tears on Mary's face and John's not doing a great job of hiding his weepy eyes either. They both pull him into a hug and Sam wraps his gigantic arms around all of them. There are ten thousand things Dean wants, no needs, to say to them. That he misses them, thinks about them every day. That when _Susie_ _Q_ comes on the radio can still see his dad sitting in the Impala, singing along with Fogerty. And that any Beatles song makes him think of _Hey_ , _Jude_ and no matter where he is, he'll pull out his iPod and listen to it.

     Sam wants to know what his mom's favorite book is, how she takes her coffee. He wants John to retell his war stories, tell new ones. He wants John to know that he understands, that he may have been angry and sullen and brooding but he wanted to get Azazel too, wanted to wipe all those demon bastards off the face of the planet. He wants him to know that they're getting there. That they're so close and getting closer everyday.

     "My boys," Mary peppers them with kisses and hugs. "It's good to see you."

     Dean tries to say "mom" but it comes out muffled against the wool of her sweater. John slaps Sam on the back and he can't help the watery smile. John's hugs used to be bone shakers but he had a few inches on the old man now and his mom was practically a pixie beside him.

     "You've got to go," Mary says after a few minutes of them smiling at each other like idiots. "Oh, I'm so sorry but you can't stay here. You've got too much waiting for you."

     "I don't-" Dean starts but Mary cups his chin.

     "Have some faith in yourself, sweetheart. That angel's watching over you," she presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

     John is ruffling Sam's long hair, assuring him that Sam did close the gates eventually and  _goddamnit would you look out for your brother._

     "Dad," Dean says, voice gruff as Mary and Sam step away.

     "Dean," John hugs him. "I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry and I'm proud of you both."

     "What?" Dean's brows furrow and he looks at his father in shock. "I didn't, I mean... _Jesus,_ dad,  _I'm_ sorry."

    "Ain't nothing to be sorry for," John says kindly. "Nothing you could do would make me not proud of the man you've become. Now, you hold on, because it's gonna be a wild ride but, Dean, no matter what happens know that I'm so proud of you."

     John and Mary finally get themselves together enough to back away, John pressing a soothing kiss to Mary's temple. "I love you all so much," she says, shaking hands pressed to her mouth. "And we'll see you, okay? Not too soon, but we'll see you."

    Dean closes his eyes, desperately trying to memorize the vision of his parents, together and happy, waiting for them on the porch of Bobby's cabin.

     When he opens them, he's back in Cain's living room and his face is wet but it's okay because Sam's is too and his parents are proud of him.

***


	18. You Know We're Too Damn Poor to Keep You From the Gallows Pole

            “How long were we out?” Dean asks, glancing between the unconscious Metatron and Cain.

            “Four minutes,” Cain replies. He taps one of the iron watches on Georgia’s wrist, “According to this it was about three weeks for you.”

            “We were aware for three weeks,” Georgia mutters as blood seeps from her torn stitches. “The memories go back a while, years. Ugh, another shirt. Damn it.”

            Cain helps her to her feet, guiding her toward the kitchen to stitch her back up, Crowley quick on their heels.

            “I’ll have to return Metatron to Heaven,” Castiel says. “Hannah won’t be happy but-“

            “Better to ask for forgiveness than permission?” Sam suggests. “It’s good though, right? We’ve got a lead on Gabriel, we know how to break him out. Once we do that, we can do the reset spell. She should see the sense in that.”

            “You’re severely underestimating Hannah’s regard for him. Perhaps her time on Earth gave her a greater understanding of why Gabriel is…Gabriel,” Cas thinks. “We can only hope.”

            “Will they let you come back here?” Dean inquires softly, still not rising from the couch. “Now that you have…”

            “My Grace?”

            Sam raises an awkward eyebrow and tries to disappear. He can’t leave because Cas is leaning against the bookshelf and Dean is on the couch and he’ll be cut in half if he walks through the laser beams they’re shooting at each other.

            “You promised you wouldn’t go in the water.”

            “Dean.”

            “I know,” Dean pulls at his bottom lip. “I know. It doesn’t really count but I knew something bad would happen if you went in there and I was right. Granted, you didn’t explode but still…”

            “You consider this a bad thing?” Cas flickers across the room in a heartbeat, pressing two fingers against Dean’s forehead, instantly soothing the headache building at the base of his skull.

            Sam attempts escape but Cas appears back at the bookshelf, arms crossed, and he halts.

            “That’s not-“ Dean stammers. “It changes things.”

            _Because I’m a damned thing. I’m cursed and broken and ruined and how can I expect you to touch me, to want me, when there’s so much evil fighting its way out and you’re_ you. _Hail Castiel, full of Grace._

            “It changes _nothing,_ ” Cas’s voice is dangerously low.

            “But angels can’t…they don’t,” Dean taps his heart three times, the way Benny did in the Bunker kitchen before, well, _before._

            Cas’s stare darts between Dean’s boots and the coffee table. Of course Dean would expect the worst. Expect Castiel to return to factory settings, above frail, human trivialities such as affection and caring. And many, _most_ , would but _most_ hadn’t experienced humanity the way Castiel had, so saturated in the highs and lows that he would never wash it away.

            “Uh, Dean,” Sam says. “Cas was never, um, he was never that great at being an angel.”

            Dean’s head snaps up and Cas looks like Sam slapped him.

            “I mean, there was like a week or two there where you were convincing but you saddled up with us pretty quick,” Sam shrugs. “Even when they…retrained you…it lasted, what, a few days? You were never very good at doing what you were told.”

            “Naomi,” Cas says and Dean’s fist clench against his knees. “Naomi was under the impression I came off the line with a ‘crack in my chassis.’”

            Dean chokes on a laugh. He may have hated the uptight angel, but goddamn she had a point.

            “I’m just saying,” Sam casually makes his way between them, easing toward the kitchen door. _Good work. Smooth, not obvious at all._ “Maybe go for a drive. Talk it out. Drop Metadouche at the playground and uh, take your time getting back.”

            He slips into the kitchen with a sigh of relief.

***

            “I don’t understand,” Cain is saying when Sam backs into the room. Crowley’s finishing off his whiskey and Juliet pads by Sam, disappearing outside through the wall like a ghost. “What is a _Doctor Sexy_?”

            Crowley pours himself another drink.

            “Gabriel is stuck in a television show. He died a few years ago in an attempt to stop Lucifer,” Sam explains. “Metatron bound him with the Angel Tablet. In the past, Gabriel hid out as a Trickster and Metatron thought it was his ‘just desserts’ to let him rot. He came back a few year ago to try and get Cas to lead the angels. Cas didn’t know he was the real Gabriel until now.”

            “That would explain why he is not in Heaven’s prison,” Cain says. “Why was he not released when the Angel Tablet broke?”

            “According to Gabriel, he was. He’s just not strong enough to get himself out. We have the spell. There are a few things I need at the Bunker, figure out where to get some Tulpa blood, that'll be fun, and then we have to find a place big enough hold him. He likened himself to a meteor colliding with Earth but I’ll bet he’s all bluster.”

            “Let’s hope so,” Crowley adds. “Three demons, a halfsie, and a vampire at the crash site of an archangel? Don’t know that we’re walking away from that one.”

            “Demons can’t be around an archangel,” Sam remembers. “And hey, Dean isn’t a demon. Currently. And we don't know how much of an angel, arch or otherwise, Gabriel is.”

            Cain twirls his drink, staring without seeing at the bathroom door. “Anything I should know about?” he asks Crowley after a beat, blue eyes sad.

            Crowley rubs at his eyebrows, uncertain. “She’s been in there a while,” he says instead.

            Cain sighs. “She went out the window a few minutes ago.”

            “What?”

            Cain waves and the door clicks open, revealing a running tap and a bloody washcloth.

            “Juliet went with her,” he says tiredly. The living room is empty now of hunters and angels and Cain cracks a book, settling into his chair. “She’ll be back when she’s ready.”

            “You gonna go after her?” Sam asks Crowley.

            “I like my limbs where they are, thanks.”

            “She could…” he trails off, considering.

            “Get hurt? Unlikely. Get lost? No. Fall in a hole? Probably but she could just zap herself out.” Sam think Crowley’s going for the bedroom but the King of Hell falls into a chair, intent on waiting for Georgia to return. “I know you can brush these things off, Moose, the many, many times your head’s been scrambled. It’s never happened to Georgia, it’ll take her a while to sort through it.”

            “Then I’ll go after her.”

            “She doesn’t need a hero, Sam!” Crowley shouts but Sam is already out the door, passing a tupperware ladened Benny on the porch.

            “Hey, hoss,” Benny greets, placing hours of cooking on the table. “What’d I miss?”

***

            “Well, that went better than I expected,” Dean admits, pulling away from the playground as the flickering blue lights of Heaven wink out of existence.

            The angel guarding the portal didn’t seem surprised to see them and relayed a message from Hannah. “Of course it was you,” she’d wanted them to know. “It always is.”

            “I’m as surprised as you are,” Castiel replies. “She’s doing well up there, it seems. Has things under control.”

            “You were worried?” Dean merges onto the highway and if Cas notices that Dean stays below the speed limit, dragging out their time together, he says nothing.

            “How are you feeling?” the angel asks.

            “Tired, drained. Bordering on exhausted,” Dean says. The streetlights bounce around the Impala and Dean thinks of the lost moment in a garden, of heat lightning on the horizon. “You’re good though. Juiced up?”

            Cas’s head falls forward and he toys with the sleeve of his trench coat. “I had to go in, Dean.”

            “I’m not mad, Cas. I know it’s what you wanted,” he speaks over him. “Okay, maybe not wanted. Needed. It’s just, I had that nightmare about you and the…and then you were walking into the water and it was like I was there again. And I still couldn’t do a damn thing.”

            “Is that all?” Cas asks carefully. He notes that Dean's right hand is not on the steering wheel, it's not tapping out a distracted rhythm on his denim-covered thigh. It rests loose, fingers spread on the chilled leather seat, nearly between them.

            Dean rolls his lips and blushes. “Oh. _That._ ”

            “I meant-”

            Dean cuts him off, if only to finally get it off his chest. “Actually it made some things very, _very_ clear.”

            “How do you mean?” Cas’s head tilts and Dean feels something unfurl in his chest.

            “It’s just, uh, see when Sammy and I get separated…college, Purgatory, that kind of thing, he’s always okay. He always finds a place for himself, a life he can ease into, build around. I kind of hated him for that because even when I tried it, I sucked. I thought it was,” Dean draws in a breath. “He always made it seem so easy and I struggled. I wanted to hunt, I wanted to see you, I talked to Sammy every goddamn day even though…well, even though.”

            “Dean, I don’t-”

            “I dragged Sam away from Amelia kicking and screaming. I know I did. So what does that tell me, huh?”

            _That Sam will survive if you don’t make it,_ Cas doesn’t say.

            “It tells me that Sammy always finds a place,” Dean glances over, just shy of meeting Cas’s gaze. “And I always find you.”

            “Dean,” Cas whispers, a plea. 

            “Or you find me,” Dean shrugs off the burn in his cheeks. “Where we were, I had no clue, no fucking clue that it wasn't right. Clean slate. But when I saw you out the window, across the street, I thought, 'Oh. There he is.'"

              _But I won't always be,_ Cas knows.

             "You know," Dean huffs a laugh though nothing is funny. "When I went looking for Emmanuel and found you at the bottom of the stairs, I was sure a djinn had gotten me. Isn't that dumb? I had to remember how I'd gotten there, 'cause it's like a dream. Going through my phone, checking Baby's mileage. I called Mackey at least a dozen times, asking if he knew where I was, what I was doing. All that just to lose you again. And get you back again. I mean, it's gotta end sometime, doesn't it? At some point we get to just...right?"

             Cas doesn't want to lie to him so he runs his palm across the seat until their hands are flush. Dean slides his hand over the angel's, clasping their fingers tight.

             The Impala trundles along the pot-holed road, coming to a slow stop a dozen yards from Cain's porch. He recognizes the new car parked on the lawn, one of the classics left in the Bunker's garage, so Benny and the others must have made their way here, judging by the silhouettes sitting at the dinner table. He entertains the idea of stealing away for the night, take Cas to the probably deserted Bunker, find out if he can get Cas to make the noises he had in the bookstore. But they have to sort out this Gabriel problem, and the problems Gabriel is likely to cause upon his return, and there's still the Mark which brings him to...

             "I know you're planning something," he says quietly and kills the engine. His gaze is resolutely forward, tracking Georgia who has just appeared from the woods, soaking wet and bloody-knuckled, stomping up to the house. "You and Sammy ain't the type to give up. I think Sam's putting all his faith in Gabriel, hoping if we make him God he can, I don't know, erase the Mark. But you, you're gonna put your faith in something else. And it's not me, because you know...you've seen what I am now. So it's gotta be you. And Cas, I am asking you right now, I am  _begging_ you, man. Whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning, don't."

             "If I can help," Cas starts but Dean cranks down on his knuckles, silencing him.

             "Your intentions, as fucking noble as I know they are, I'm not worth it."

             "It's not up to you to decide," the angel argues.

             "It won't go right, not completely. The price, the outcome, whatever. Something will get fucked and we'll be worse off. So," Dean slides across the seat, broaching Castiel's space but the angel doesn't back away, can't because Dean is pressing him into the door and the window crank bites into his shoulder at the same moment Dean crashes their mouths together.

             "So," Dean follows the cut of Castiel's jaw, down the line of his throat, working on shoving the trench coat from the angel's broad shoulders. "You're going to quit what you're doing, break whatever deals you're making. We're going to save your dumbass brother from TV Land, we're going to unbreak the world, and then we'll take stock. Regroup."

             Castiel wants to argue but his hands are already under Dean's shirt and he abuses his freshly acquired strength in order to manhandle Dean into the backseat of the Impala, falling ungracefully onto the hunter, his half-ass apology is swallowed by Dean's moan. Dean kisses him like he already agreed, like the angel's acquiesce at being touched has somehow sealed the deal that he'll stop whatever he's doing. But Cas won't, he  _can't_ , just as he can't fight the way they grind against each other, awkwardly, both too big for this kind of thing but loving every second.

             "Until then," Dean's brow is sweaty where it pushes into Cas's as he does his best to undo both their pants with one hand. "We're going- _yeah, that's it-_ we're going to hide out here and  _Cas...."_ _  
_

 "And what, Dean?" Cas asks, his head snaps back when Dean takes them both in hand, skin slick and damp. He forgets he asked a question until Dean responds, dragging his teeth up Castiel's neck to settle by his ear.

 "And we're going to fulfill a few fantasies I've had about you and this backseat."

***

 "Tulpa blood," Georgia plunks the canteen on the counter, washes her hands, and fills up a plate like she doesn't smell of lighter fluid.

            Sam had given up looking for her after twenty minutes, using most of the walk to clear his head. Georgia's knuckles are bloody and torn, her shirt is soaked through at the stomach and if her swollen eye is any indication, she's going to have a hell of a black eye.

            "Where did you go?" he asks.

            "Maine. You needed it, right?" she shrugs, giving Benny a thumbs up for the jambalaya. "You have everything else at the Bunker. Fresh Tulpa blood was the only thing missing."

            "Yeah," Sam answers slowly. "But I thought we'd all go and get it together. I didn't want to risk anyone."

            "I wasn't at risk and I needed to work out some aggression," Georgia replies shortly. "Makes sense. Tulpa's shape the world around them, kind of like the Angel Tablet. Control the blood, control the spell. Don't suppose we've figured out the where."

            "Someplace open, not a lot of people, for one thing," Sam taps a pen against his teeth. He looks to Crowley, "And what did he say? It has to be thin? Between worlds?"

            Crowley nods, lips pulling down in a frown. "There are many of them throughout the world, places where the skin between dimensions lets things bleed through. Bermuda Triangle, Stonehenge, that door in the mountains that leads to the underground dinosaurs."

            Charlie's head snaps up from her computer. "Isn't that _Journey to the Center of the Earth?_ "

            "Based on a true story," Crowley mutters to her under his breath. "Someplace powerful, between worlds. Somewhere dedicated to angels wouldn't hurt, and desolate. High too, if it's a matter of catching him."

            "Roche Rock?" Charlie suggests, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Small chapel on top of a rock that's supposedly blessed by Michael. Is he pissed at us?" she asks. "Or is he okay?"

            "He's okay," Adam and Georgia answer as one.

            Charlie makes a disappointed noise. "And it's in Cornwall. Maybe somewhere a little closer to home. The airline fare alone is," she whistles. "Incredibly steep. Where are we on stolen credit cards?"

            Cain, Georgia and Crowley glance at each other. "Distance isn't a problem," Georgia points out.

            "Really?" Charlie asks, eyebrows raised and Georgia remembers sitting across from this girl, playing drinking games and laughing. "You can just  _snap_ and be there?"

            "The snapping isn't really necessary but it does look good," Crowley says.

            "And you can take us all?" Charlie asks and Georgia nods. "We are going some places when this is all sorted, George. I'm talking  _Doctor Who_ tour and  _Harry Potter World."_

           "Sign me up," Georgia grin and the wound on her lip reopens.

           Sam checks his watch, debating if he should head back to the Bunker tonight for the rest of the supplies or wait until morning. "Dean and Cas should have been back by now. You don't think the angels gave them any problems, do you?"

           "They're fine," Georgia answers tightly.

           Sam's already dragging his phone from his pocket.

           "Sam, seriously," Georgia says. "Don't. They're good. They're back."

           "Then why?" he asks, getting to his feet before his brain processes what Georgia  _isn't_ saying. He sits. " _Oh_."

           There's a tentative knock at the door and everyone looks around, taking count and frowning. "Isn't everyone here?" Adam asks.

           Sam slinks toward the door, drawing the pistol from his jeans. He opens the door slowly and it takes his eyes a few moments to adjust, figure back lit by the moon's glow. Then he recognizes the short crop of dark hair and tilted grin. "Hey."

           "Jody," Sam breathes and pulls her into his arms before remembering that literally nearly everyone he knows is watching.

           "Oh good, she got my email," Georgia high fives Charlie.

           "Did you know there are people having sex in the Impala?" she slides by Sam and waves awkwardly at everyone staring at her. "I could turn on my flashers, give 'em a scare."

***

          "You know," Charlie's teeth chatter and she pulls her scarf up to her nose so it muffles her voice, fumbling the rifle she carries. "This isn't the vacation I had in mind."

          "Comicon isn't even happening right now," Georgia's just as cold but hiding it better and Jody refuses to talk to either of them. The ridiculously long drive, followed by the restless, worried sleep after Sam explained everything that had happened recently, and then being zapped to fucking Cornwall has her irritated. She huddles closer to Juliet, the warm beast radiating heat.

          Sam, Crowley and Adam appear next. All of their arms loaded with bowls and herbs and jars and the canteen of Tulpa blood. Sam gets to work right away, his hands shaking from nerves and windchill equally.

          Benny and Cain are completely unaware and unbothered by the cold and take up defensive positions on the outer ledge of Roche Rock, wool coats billowing in the raucous wind.

          Dean and Castiel appear last. They have trouble meeting anyone's eyes, the catcalls and wolf whistles they'd walked into the night before (assuming everyone was asleep when really they were playing rummy in the living room) had them both blushing and cursing like caught teenagers. Dean had turned his ire on Sam, pointing out that his little brother was just jealous because a certain North Dakota sheriff wasn't around for a bit of Last Night On Earth Nook- _oh, hey Jody. When did you get here?_

           "Dean, George," Sam commands, pouring blood over the oil-soaked herbs and Cas leans down to help him. "Stay toward the outside with Benny and Cain. We don't want to risk you being too close to the landing zone." Georgia rolls her eyes, difficult when one is nearly swollen shut and approaches the edge of the cliff, toes hanging over the edge. She rolls the First Blade between her hands, warming the handle.

           "You don't have to babysit me," she tells Dean who has stayed at her side.

           Dean shrugs. "You're still hurt, you know. And I'm worried about you. We haven't gotten a chance to regroup after Pleasantville, thought you might want to...you know, talk."

           "I can separate fact from fiction, Dean," Georgia smirks. "And as nice as it was, and it was, you know. Mary is wonderful and John is, I mean, he's a lot like Cain. But I like my life, I like what I can do and what I am. I'm happy here and I really wasn't there because...because something was off.  _I_ was off but I didn't know why until Crowley jogged my memory. I think I'm avoiding him more than anything. I'm embarrassed, I guess."

          "About what?"

          "Oh," she replies flippantly. "That he did all that and I'd still take him back in a heartbeat."

          Dean huffs out a laugh and it frosts in the air. "You know, Cas beat the shit out of me once. Well, twice actually. Broke my arm and I thought, there was a real second there where I thought it was over. It wasn't really him, which sounds like a PSA for domestic violence, I know, but it really wasn't. I knew something was wrong, and Cas needed my help. And even after all that, things that should have had me running for the hills because people just don't do that, but it was Cas and fighting for us isn't like fighting for real people. Because, see, I could take the pain. I could take the broken arm and the blood because I was strong enough. So maybe it's like that. It hurts and it's awful and there are a million and one reasons why you should go. But you stay."

           "Because you love him," she whispers and it may be a question but Dean just grins. Georgia can feel the tension in the smile though and, in true Winchester fashion, distracts. "I do hate Meg though."

           "You know what?" Dean thinks of Cas pressing the brunette demon to the wall and kissing the hell out of her. "I hate Meg too."

           "Not as much as she hates you, I'd expect," a new voice says, low and chillier than the air around them. Rowena's cloak catches the wind as she materializes behind them.

           Georgia hefts the Blade, starting toward the witch. "Told you she'd be a spider."

           But Rowena blinks out of existence, appearing a few yards away. She aims a few quick spells at Georgia and they sting and bite but she shrugs them off. The satisfied smirk on Rowena's face gives her pause and the witch draws two packets from her cloak.

           She tosses the hex bags like dealing cards, a quick flick of her wrist and the first hits Dean square in the chest and he catches it there, brows drawn in confusion as he looks between it and the witch. Georgia's hand is outstretched, the bag just brushing her fingers but Cain appears, snatching the bag from the air and Georgia's grasp.

           There's a quick burst of magic. _Sam started the spell_ , Georgia thinks.  _If I can keep Rowena distracted..._

           "Those don't work on us, you big dummy," Georgia snickers but it's Cain's fist slamming into her skull that tells her she may be mistaken.

           Blood gushes from her ear, Cain's ring having caught the thin skin, breaking it open and she looks up into the demon black eyes of her father.

           "No," she whispers, skittering, her only thoughts being _no_ and _away_ until she slams into something behind her. Dean hauls her to her feet, world spinning and she grasps her brother's arms, keeping Cain in her line of sight. She has a moment, maybe half a second, to feel relief until she remembers that Dean had touched a hex bag too. His hand cranks down on her wrist, grasping for the Blade and Georgia throws herself to the ground, clutching the Blade to her chest.

           Juliet howls, alerting the others to the fight.

           Dean drops the hex bag, black eyes trailing its descent to the ground where it breaks open, contents spilling into the grass.

           "How?" Georgia gasps, frantically looking behind them. Everyone is running toward the commotion but they don't know,  _they don't know_ , that Rowena isn't the real threat anymore. That everything went terrible and she knew it would but she never,  _ever_ thought it would be this. But she already knows the how, exactly how, as she looks at the Blade. "The weights been off."

           Because two teeth are missing from the blade and one of them is winking at her from the grass at Dean's feet. "You used the teeth in the hex bag."

           "Georgia," Cain says, blinking away black eyes in favor of blue but Georgia isn't fooled. "Give me the Blade."

           "No," she stumbles back, flirting with the edge of the cliff.

           Sam reaches them first, halting just behind Cain who is already spinning, already clenching his fist.

           He catches Sam in the jaw and the young Winchester collapses to the ground. He hears Georgia shout, through the ringing in his ears that they're hexed, that they're demons and that everyone's got to get away but Dean is already tugging at his lapels, leaning over him, gazing down at him with black eyes.

           "Well, hey again, Sammy," Dean greets, cruel smiling curling his lips. There's a barrage of hits to his face before Sam lands a good one right back, slamming Dean into the ground. He fumbles with his jacket, hefting Ruby's knife in unsteady fingers, squaring off.

           Dean circles with the same aloof coolness he'd displayed during his battle with Cole and Sam knows that this one, if he can't get through to him, can't get his brother back, will go the same way. Between blows, he spares a glance at Georgia. She's curled around the Blade, keeping it tucked to her, while Cain pulls at her shoulders and kicks at her. She doesn't fight back but she doesn't relent, taking each hit with a curse and a quiet sob.

           Benny joins the fray, doing his best to keep Cain occupied but he's no match for the demon, flicked aside with barely a glance.

           Sam's moment of distraction is all Dean needs and he drives a knee into his brother's side, dropping Sam to the ground with a wheeze. Dean falls on top of him and Sam remembers a fight like this a decade ago, Dean grinning down at him, proud of his baby brother's reflexes. That time, however, Ruby's knife wasn't between them.

           "Don't make me do this," Sam begs, knife point digging into Dean's sternum. "Please, don't. It's just a hex, we can-"

           But Dean drops his weight and the blade sinks in to the hilt. The smile never falters from his brother's face and his black eyes are smug. "Oh. Did I not mention...that doesn't work on me."

           His fingers curl around Sam's neck, thumbs crushing his throat.

           Jody and Charlie keep their guns raised, ready, but neither shoot. Because the chances of hitting an enemy are equal to hitting a friend and they can't shoot Dean because it's Dean but there's too much at risk to do nothing and Cas and Benny are the only things keeping Georgia from being pulverized by her father and Crowley banishes Rowena in a blast of fire and smoke but the witch's work here is done and someone...

           It's Adam who doesn't freeze.

           He has a knife and a pistol but he draws neither, he knows instinctively it's not that kind of fight. They don't need to hit or fire, they need to run. Sam is losing strength, fingers scrambling uselessly at Dean's arms and Adam bolts, full-body tackling Dean and rolling them dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

           "Little brother," Dean says icily and he pulls the blade from Adam's coat. "Who knew you had a pair?"

           There's a blast of Grace and Adam is ripped away, knocked into Sam, and Crowley locks a hand in each of their collars. Jody and Charlie pull Georgia to the group, blood staining the grass where she's dragged but she holds tight to the Blade. Benny pulls the three girls into his arms and grabs Crowley's coat.

           Castiel stands between Cain and Dean and the others, eyes glowing blue and fire crackling at his fingertips.

           "Dean," the inkling of his true voice makes Dean's ears hurt. "This isn't you."

           "Sorry," Dean bites back. "Dean isn't home."

           He takes a step forward but Castiel flares his wings, and damaged as they are, they halt the demons. Juliet slinks to the angel's side, hackles raised and jaw dripping. Dean wants to fight, wants to rip the angel to pieces and get to Georgia, get the Blade but Cain clears his throat and Dean meets the Father of Murder's gaze, realizing the old man has a plan.

           It's bound to be a good one too.

           Georgia cracks open one eye just in time to watch the demons disappear.

           "They'll be back," Castiel turns, face stricken. "Where do we go?"

           Crowley nods once and Castiel takes his elbow, letting the demon pull them all away from Roche Rock.

           The Bunker isn't safe from Dean and Cain's probably waiting at the house on the lake. He entertains the idea of taking them all to Hell briefly but he doesn't know what's happened since he left, what kind of state it's in, and he can't risk any of them now.

           Not with the magnitude of their current threat.

           Georgia, loopy as she is, takes the reigns and Crowley lets her. They flash through a few obscure places, a Biggerson's, a Gas'n'Sip, a farmhouse in Nebraska. A few well known places, the Eiffel Tower, the Strait of Magellan, the Hollywood sign. She's leaving a trail, sightings that the hunter and demon may follow only to find dead ends, keeping their visits to seconds at most. She can't risk them being tracked.

           They finally crash to a stop when blood pours from Georgia's throat and Castiel's head is throbbing and Crowley's nose is bleeding with the stress of flying so many so far.

            The bloodstones are still resting on the dresser.

            "Are we safe here?" Sam asks.

           "Rule one of secret rendezvous spot," Crowley swipes at the blood under his nose before sinking to Georgia's side. "Don't tell scary father about secret rendezvous spot." 

              _It didn't work,_ Sam goes over the last ten minutes again and again. He'd seen Rowena appear, watched Cain strike Georgia, he'd stabbed Dean.  _It didn't work and Dean's a demon. It didn't work and Dean's a demon._

            There are tears running down Castiel's face as he taps at Georgia's many wounds. Rather than fight back and risk losing the Blade, she'd taken every hit, every kick that Cain had dealt out and it showed from the cuts on her face to the fractures in her arms. Even Cas doesn't have the strength to heal her completely, almost passing out before Georgia finally pushes him away. Crowley lifts Georgia, who cries out like a wounded animal, and lays her as gently as possible on the bed.

            Georgia is frantic as she shouts at Crowley, blood dribbling down her chin. "Claire, you have to get Claire. Crowley, you have to get Claire."

            Sam takes stock of what they have. Charlie, Jody and Adam are alive. Benny is seething, angrily pacing the edges of the room, checking wards and windows. Crowley is trying to convince Georgia to drop the Blade and she keeps her fingers curled around it even as unconsciousness takes her.

             Crowley flickers briefly, returning to the cabin with a wide-eyed Claire. Her gaze darts around the room and a silent _'what the fuck'_ works it's way from her mouth before Charlie leaps up to introduce herself.

            Cas approaches Sam, pressing two fingers to his forehead before the hunter can protest and all the wounds Dean caused are instantly gone.  _But they happened,_ Sam knows. _And I stabbed him with Ruby's knife and it did nothing. And he would have killed me. Dean would have killed me if it hadn't been for Adam. Dean would have killed me._

            "Sam?" Cas asks quietly, noting the hunter's lost stare.

            "We're so fucked," Sam says to the silent room.

***


	19. Heartbreaker

            “I told you he’d go nuts again,” Claire says, tugging at the ends of her blonde hair. It’s half up on the left side, three braids against her scalp but it hangs around her ear where she’d been interrupted. Crowley had appeared in a flash of red smoke, told her to grab a bag, and poofed them back here, _wherever here is,_ as she fought the urge to throw up in front of a bunch of strangers.

            The red-haired girl, _the name’s Charlie,_ had been first up. She’s holding a shot gun in trembling hands as if she wants to put it down but her fear won’t let her. Another woman, _Jody_ she’d said before asking if Claire was hungry, has a pistol on her hip. She’s on edge but not as shaken as Charlie. _Or maybe she’s just better at hiding it._

            There’s a barrel-chested man putting a butterfly bandage on a young, blond boy’s brow and the young man offers a half-smile when Claire catches his eye. Castiel is sitting in a chair, hands grasping his knees tightly and Claire wants to make a joke about how doofy he looks, how uncomfortable, if only to wipe the look of complete devastation from his face.

            Sam’s just finished explaining, looking green around the gills and like he wants to hit something, that something failed, something went wrong and Dean’s a danger now. She feels remorse the moment the barb is out of her mouth. She was working on being a nicer person, letting go of some of that anger. But she’d never thought Castiel could look so defeated, and Sam could look so lost, and it makes her furious because she’d warned them and all the angel could do was shrug helplessly.

            “Is Georgia going to be okay?” she asks after muttering an apology, focusing her attention to the figure on the bed.

            Cas’s head snaps up. “You know her?”

            Claire nods, making her way around the bedside. Georgia’s face is smeared with blood, her nose still swollen where Castiel had healed the break. Her eye is puffy though her brow is relaxed, the deep, restful sleep of the completely unconscious. Georgia’s knuckles are surprisingly unscathed but white where they grip an old jaw bone. Whatever got her, she hadn’t put up a fight.

            Claire runs a palm over Georgia’s hand and the oblivious girl relents, fingers falling open, finally releasing the First Blade.

            “She used to show up sometimes,” Claire shrugs. “Thought she was just another street kid at first, she always knew which shelters weren’t busy or weren’t too dangerous. We got jumped one night by a bunch of vampires, I think, and she took them out. Figured she was on orders from you guys so I got pissed but she wasn’t. Said she wanted to help.”

            “And you just believed her?” Sam asks, putting ten-thousand percent of his focus on Claire’s voice and Jody next to him so he doesn’t have to think about anything else.

            “At least she was there,” Claire says pointedly.

            “She’ll heal,” Castiel answers at last. “I can’t imagine she’s going to be okay.”

            “What happened?”

            “Her father,” Cas says tightly. “A witch managed to trip the Mark with a hex bag. Cain and Dean were both impervious to…any magic, really. But Rowena used teeth from the First Blade and…”

            “So we burn the bags, right?” Sam asks. “That usually works.”

            “We only have this one,” Crowley says. He has the hex bag open, ingredients spread across the dresser. He holds the tooth up to the light and then studies the two leather sachets. “It’s one inside the other see. The littler one here, this is yellow evening primrose, used for good hunts. And cypress eases the mind, used for healing and immortality. Bunch of other little herbs, all for good luck and power and such.  The inscription in the leather of the bag promotes these things.”

            “And the larger bag?” Claire asks, studying the hex bag in fascination.

            “The not so fun one,” Crowley answers. “Pepper tree for purification, eryngo for peace. And aster. For love.”

            “Those are all good things,” Adam points out. “Purity, peace, love.”

            “Ten points to Hufflepuff,” Crowley says then grabs the larger leather bag. “Of course, all of those things when put in this bag with this symbol on it…like inverted tarot cards, see? The meanings become opposite. The intentions become dark.”

            “Purity, peace, love,” Castiel repeats. “Corruption, war, hate.”

            “Rowena blessed them with strength and power but she took everything else away,” Sam says, breathless. “Compassion, humanity. They’re run by the Mark now, aren’t they? Totally and completely.”

            Cas takes hold of the tiny tooth. It burns in his palm, not liking the Grace imbued in his skin, so he tucks in it his pocket. It’s done all the damage it’s going to. “I’m afraid so. Cain would never have struck Georgia like that if he were in his right mind. And Dean…”

            Sam remembers the feel of Ruby’s knife slipping into Dean’s flesh. Can still see Dean grinning down at him, green eyes empty. “He knew,” Sam whispers.

            “Sam?” Castiel asks, placing a worried palm on the young Winchester’s shoulder.

            “Dean knew that Ruby’s knife wouldn’t work, even when…in the Bunker when he got out. I had it at his throat and he told me to do it but…there was never any risk, it was never going to hurt him.”

            “Dean threatened Cain when we went to him the first time,” Crowley admits. “Second verse, same as the first.”

            “And he failed to mention that,” Sam mutters. “I slept with that under my pillow for weeks thinking…if the worst happened…I could still…but he would have just walked it off.”

            “He didn’t, Sam,” Castiel argues. “He didn’t hurt you then and this isn’t Dean either.”

            “No, no it’s not,” Sam agrees. “This is Dean on Mark of Cain magic and gamma rays. Cas, even the first time, it was Dean. He was in there. But I looked in his eyes, he stared me down and they were _empty._ He’s not in there, Cas. Not at all.”

            “What’s our first move?” Charlie speaks up at Castiel’s continued impression of a statue. “We’ve got a new base of operations but we need a plan. Are we talking recon or…”

            She falls silent.

            “Catch and release ain’t lookin’ too smart,” Benny chimes in.

            “We need a solution,” Sam says. “A permanent one.”

            “We have one, I just…” Castiel trails off, frustrated, and Crowley clicks his tongue. “I was hoping…”

            “You have the numbers,” Claire points out. “There are enough of us, maybe someone can get through.”

            “All of us, against them, it’s still not enough,” Sam admits. “The only ones who remotely stand a chance are Cas and Georgia. Georgia who is not going to be in fighting shape for a while. And even if we went gung-ho, dog-pile, is anyone here actually willing to take a shot at Dean?”

            “If it isn’t really Dean,” Charlie begins carefully but Sam cuts her off.

            “Stop. I know what I said…but as long that Mark is wearing my brother, I’m gonna fight for him because that’s exactly what he did when Lucifer was wearing me.”

            Claire shoots a confused glance at Castiel but he shakes his head.

            “There will be no guns blazing, understood? Charlie is right. Our first move is recon. We need to know where they are, what they’re after.”

            “We know what they’re after,” Georgia struggles to her elbows before falling back on the pillows with a graceless _whump._ She nudges the First Blade with bloody fingernails.

            “They’re capable of enough damage without that,” Castiel says. He moves toward her, two fingers up to heal her and it proves how shitty she feels because she doesn’t pretend to fight him.

            “But they’re vulnerable without it,” Georgia sighs as Grace courses through her, finishing the last of the bone-knitting in her arms and removing the blood from her face. It does nothing for the ache in her heart. “They’ll be looking over their shoulders,” _for me_ , “until it’s in their possession. Granted, if one of them gets it, they’ll probably just go after the other.”

            “And there’s still the witch,” Jody says.

            “No one leaves as long as we have that Blade,” Benny crosses his arms but no one bothers to argue with him. “They get their hands on one of us, they know the others’ll come runnin’. That’s why you wanted the girl, right?” he nods to Claire.

            “Those hex bags,” Crowley explains. “They strip it all. Everything they care about, they’re gonna lash out at it. Destroy anything that made them feel weak or unstable. Anything that made them feel _human_. For Cain, it’s Georgia. For Dean, it’s Sam and Castiel.”

            “There are others though,” Jody says, already reaching for her phone. “Donna and Alex have no idea, your Marine buddy.”

            “I already sent a blanket text to the hunters to be on lookout, don’t engage. Cole too.”

            Crowley shakes his head. “They have their targets, everyone else is simply in the way.”

            “So no one leaves. Until we know…until…” Sam trails off. “No one leaves.”

***

            “Seriously, Cas?”

            Sam gets a hold of Cas’s coat a moment before the angel steps off the porch. The floor of the cabin is littered with hunters and cops and vampires, lumped under blankets or tucked close around the dying fire. Georgia was still resting on the bed and it was Crowley and Cas’s hushed conversation that had woken Sam in the first place. Never quite able to sleep deeply when Dean was in trouble.

            “Which part of ‘no one leaves’ did you miss?”

            “Sam.”

            “Okay, I know you and Dean can hold an entire conversation with only the words “Cas” and “Dean” but I’m going to need a little more,” Sam rubs at his eyes. “Where are you going?”

            “To find Dean,” the angel replies.

            Sam hums like an upset parent. “Mhhm, right. You’re going to talk to Dean. Alone. Knowing, _knowing_ , that if he gets you, we will all come save your ass.”

            “He won’t ‘get me,’” Cas sighs. “I thought I might reason with him.”

            “Tried that,” Sam says. “Last time, remember? He hunted me through the Bunker and he was going to kill me when you saved my life. So this is me saving yours. Get back in the house.”

            Sam forgets, sometimes, that Castiel is an angel. The dark-haired man is so unsure, so awkward and so absolutely integral to Sam’s life that he forgets that it wasn’t always this way. There was a time when Castiel was prepared to take Sam out, there was a time when, even soulless, fear had trickled down Sam’s spine when Cas had tilted his head and muttered ‘boy.’

            It’s nothing short of a relief when Cas’s shoulders sink and he shakes his head at the ground. “I understand, Sam. But-”

            “C’mon, Cas. I can’t lose both of you. Do you even remember this summer? You were dying from Angel flu and road tripping with Hannah and I was waiting at the Bunker for word that you were dead, or Dean was dead. Do you remember that?”

            “I remember you got hurt,” Cas replies timidly. “Because of me.”

            “It’s not the same,” Sam’s hands crank down on the porch banister, cold wood biting into his palms. “Things are different now. Things between you and Dean are different so I know that this…I mean, there’s no happily ever after, is there?”

            Castiel stretches his shoulders, subtly shifting his wings.

            “I heard what Crowley said before you snuck out,” Sam whispers and Cas pales. “I lose you both either way.”

            “Team Free Will,” Cas avoids Sam’s eyes, squinting into the growing dark. “Do you remember _that_? We fought for it. We bled for it. You went to Hell for it,” he claps Sam on the shoulder and steps back off the porch. “This is me exercising it.”

            He’s gone before Sam can reach out.

***

            “Shit, sorry.”

            Adam jerks awake when someone trods on his foot and he looks up in time to see Claire sink onto the plushy cushion of the bay window. He pushes himself up on one arm to look around. Crowley is the only one not asleep, he and Claire are both nursing cracked mugs of tea as Crowley studies a large tome spread out on the desk.

            He gets to his feet, approaching the window slowly before offering Claire his spare blanket, noticing she’d draped hers over Georgia.

            “You okay?” he asks.

            She smiles wryly. “Better than everyone else, I think. I couldn’t sleep so I made some tea,” she offers him her cup and he holds it while she settles the blanket. “Georgia’s boyfriend is…old.”

            Adam grins. “He’s the King of Hell.”

            “That is…pretty cool, actually.”

            “Or whatever is left of Hell,” Adam continues. “We closed the Gates but I don’t know what that means. Then while Benny and I, that’s him there, he’s a vampire, made enough food to feed an army, or a few Winchester and companies, Dean, Sam and Georgia took a trip to Heaven to see Mary and John.”

            “Sounds like I missed quite the party,” Claire says. “So how did you get roped into this? Angel abduct your dad too?”

            “Oh, I died,” Adam replies dismissively. “And then an archangel brought me back to be a vessel but I got dragged into the Cage on accident. Georgia rescued me like a week ago. Dean wouldn’t agree to be a vessel for Michael so I was…persuaded.”

            Claire’s blue eyes are wide in her pale face and her mouth drops open in surprise. “Uh? You died.”

            “Yep,” Adam says, popping the _p._ “Eaten by ghouls. What about you?”

            “Oh, uh,” Claire plucks at a loose thread on the blanket. “Angel abducted my dad.”

            “Castiel,” Adam nods. “I can see the resemblance, it’s the eyes.”

            “Guess I got off light compared to you.”

            Adam casts his gaze over the bundled forms on the floor. “I don’t think any of us got off light.”

***

            Castiel didn’t survive his time as a human or outcast angel by making stupid decisions. Dean had called him once, affectionately he thought but perhaps not in retrospect, a baby in a trench coat. The remark had stung, bit at him until a small time later when Castiel had pointed out his own powerlessness and Dean had replied, “So what? I never had any powers.”

            But Castiel has powers now, and because he isn’t stupid, he doesn’t leave the safe house and fly immediately to Dean’s side. Instead, he pauses in Lebanon, checking the empty Bunker. He goes to Sioux Falls where the ruins of Bobby’s cabin are undisturbed. He doesn’t dare fly too close to Cain’s house, knowing the madman will have every manner of trap prepared for them.

            Eventually and with trepidation he hasn’t felt in ages, he tracks Dean to a diner.

            He’s prepared for anything. A blood-soaked pile of corpses cooling on the black and white tiled floor. Screaming cries, begging. Instead, Dean is outside the diner, shirtless and with his jeans slung low on his hips, digging through the trunk of the Impala in the low-sodium glow of the parking lot lights.

            “Took you long enough,” he turns and Castiel isn’t surprised to see blood coating his chest and arms. It’s caked under his fingernails and splashed along the side of his face.

            “Are you hurt?” the angel asks and wants to hit himself.

            “Please,” Dean scoffs. He douses his hands in a bottle of water, doing his best to scrub the blood away. “Found a vampire nest a few towns over. Thirty of ‘em,” he grins like Cas should be impressed. “Never knew what hit ‘em.”

            Hope blossoms in Castiel’s chest.

            “We went looking for you, you know. Figured you’d turn up at the Bunker but no. Tried your usual haunts, not a trace. Cain said Georgia had some clubhouses but I wasn’t too worried, obviously, you’d show yourselves in time. Can’t resist a challenge after all.”

            “And where is Cain?” Castiel takes a step closer.

            Dean huffs out an unamused laugh. “Who knows? We had a conflict of ideas. I wanted to go after all of you from the get-go. He wanted to slaughter through every person in his family line. That line ends with me and Sammy so I expect I’ll see him shortly.”

            “Everyone in his line?” Castiel grimaces. That’s not a small number.

            “Come to beg then?” Dean asks. He buttons up his red shirt and rolls the sleeves.  “Ask me to stop?”

            “Ask you to stop killing vampires?” Castiel asks. “Stop being a hunter? No.”

            “No,” Dean cocks his head and a mean grin slides across his face. “Ask me not to go after the little brat getting fingerprints on my knife.”

            The chill in Dean’s voice makes the hope flame in Castiel’s chest sputter.

            “That’s your sister,” he points out.

            “I’m not gonna play favorites,” Dean says. “I’ll kill Adam and Sam too.”

            “You’re not in there at all,” Cas whispers, taking a step away but Dean shifts to close the distance between them.

            “It’d be easier that way, huh? But you’re powered up now, take a look, angel,” Dean grabs the lapels of Cas’s coat, tugs him forward and flashes black eyes. “Tell me what you see.”

            It’s just darkness. There’s no demon hiding under Dean’s skin, morphing his face into a grotesque mockery of the man Castiel knows. There’s no healing gold, no wounded red, no real hint that the righteous man’s soul is in there at all.

            Until Castiel reaches up and closes his hands around Dean’s.

            The hunter doesn’t see it, can’t see it the way angels can. He doesn’t witness the blinding white light of his soul spearing through the gloom, reaching for the angel where their skin touches. It’s half a heartbeat at best, but enough that Dean’s eyes falter back to green, widened with shock, and he tears himself away, shoving Cas back.

            Castiel falls, scrapes his palm on the concrete but it’s a slight irritation compared to the realization that Dean _is_ still in there. Buried under the clouds of demon smoke and anger, under the Mark and hatred and corruption…

            Dean is screaming for help.

            “You don’t want to do this,” the angel says as he pulls himself to his feet. “This isn’t-”

            “Me?” Dean asks. “I said that to you once. ‘This isn’t you, Cas.’ You beat the shit outta me though. Broke my arm. Healed me and flew off with the Angel Tablet like I was the enemy. And now that I am…now that we’re here…you’re going to try my lines on me?”

            “That isn’t-”

            “Why don’t I try one of yours on you, Cas?”

            Dean slinks forward, all coiled strength and brutality, and grins at the angel. “What a brave little ant you are.”

            His fists lash out in a flurry, connecting with Castiel’s nose and cheek before Cas gets in a mindset to defend himself. Dean snaps and the parking lot lights explode, cloaking their brawl in darkness so the patrons of the diner don’t interrupt. He knows Castiel will stop the fight, disappear so Dean doesn’t turn his anger on an innocent.

            And Dean doesn’t want that. He wants to keep his fury focused on Cas.

            “Do you remember saying that to me?” he asks, blocking an incoming punch and retaliating with an elbow to Cas’s gut. “That’s all I ever was to you.”

            He swipes at the angel’s feet but Cas leaps over him, cracking a fist against his ear.

            “I was your favorite pet.”

            Dean knocks Cas into the Impala, breaking a tail light.

            “Wasn't your family.”

            Cas blocks Dean’s hold, shoves him away.

            “But I’m playing at your level now.”

            The force they inflict on each other is ruthless, inhuman. The kind of power that shifts tectonic plates, crushes them together until one buckles, one sinks, or spreads them apart leaving chasms and trenches of emptiness.

            But sometimes, when strengths are matched, when neither is willing to give up or give in, mountains are made.

            “If that’s what you really think,” Cas says between punches and kicks. He doesn’t want to hurt Dean, doesn’t want to strike him, but he won’t take a beating. Won’t knuckle under to this thing pretending to be Dean Winchester. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

            “Oh that’s right,” Dean spits blood from between his teeth. “You gave it all up for me, didn’t you, sweetheart? Heaven, angels, your army. Was I worth it?”

            Cas drives his knee into Dean’s sternum, jarring his ribs and heart and dropping the hunter to the ground. He gasps, clutches at his chest to regain breath but it’s useless. His hands are beyond control, his throat works to pull air, and he looks up at Cas, obviously surprised that he lost.

            Castiel wipes the blood from his mouth and stares down at Dean. “Yes.”

            Dean wheezes, vision beginning to blacken from lack of oxygen.

            “When this is all over, I expect you’ll ask me that again. If you’re worth it,” Cas straightens and readies his wings. “Remember that I said yes. With complete and utter conviction, Dean Winchester, yes.”

***

            Three Winchesters are waiting on the porch when Castiel returns to the safe house.

            Sam sits stoically, shoulders back, the mantle of big brotherhood obvious on his frame. He looks up at the sound of Castiel’s wings and the crunch of his boots on gravel.

            Georgia is tucked in the porch swing, knees to her chest, forehead pressing so hard that it leaves a red circle when she raises her eyes to the angel. The bruises are gone, the blood cleaned away from her hair and fingernails and between her teeth. She looks battle-ready and braced for the worst, First Blade tucked securely against her ribs and a handful of bloodstones rolling in her palm.

            Adam leans against the railing. His fingers are numb and his cheeks are chilled and he realizes they have to be somewhere in Colorado. The cabin is small, way too small for the number of people that occupy it now, and the forest grows right up to the log walls, ivy creeping over the roof. It’s well cared for though, windows and gutters kept clean, dust swept away. Georgia hadn’t been here for years, she’d said, blushing when she realized Crowley had taken care of the upkeep.

            It’s hope Castiel sees in the Winchester’s eyes when he approaches the cabin. Hope and certainty that he could get through to Dean. And he failed them.

            He says nothing, doesn’t need to. His gaze drops and for the first time he feels his years on him, weighty and burdensome. He collapses on the stairs beside Sam, a quick shake of his dark head confirming the hunter’s worst fears.

            Adam sighs.

            Georgia chokes on a sob.

            Sam slides closer to Cas until their shoulders and hips press tight. They stay like that, holding each other up, until the sun rises.

***

           


	20. Crying Won't Help You, Praying Won't Do You No Good

            “So we’re all clear on the plan then?” Georgia asks.

            The room is silent for two-point-five seconds before it erupts. The general consensus consists of “are you fucking kidding me?” from Jody and “worst.idea.ever.” from Charlie but ranges to “never going to happen” said by Adam and “sit down and shut up.”

            The last is offered by Benny, who was initially eager to agree with anything that might save Dean and limit the fall out, but now made everyone quiet down with nothing more than a cold growl. “Lay it out, carefully.”

            “Gabriel is our priority at the moment and Dean and Cain know that, they’ll be keeping an eye on Roche Rock.”

            “Do we have a second location?” Sam asks.

            Charlie shakes her head, shifting the papers that Crowley had arranged. “Unfortunately, no. Even though the spell was interrupted, we did start it there so it has to be finished there.”

            “What about the witch?” Adam queries from his perch in the bay window next to Claire.

            “Crowley will go to Roche,” Georgia replies. “He can keep her occupied, and the rest of you protected, until Gabriel arrives.”

            “Crowley,” Crowley says. “Would much rather stick with you and Feathers.”

            “Not an option,” Georgia slices her hand through the air. “You remember why we dragged Claire into this, right? If either of them got a hand on her, Castiel would come running. You think I’m going to sit by if my dad has you hostage? And this isn’t good-natured, ‘I’m going to intimidate you because you’re dating my daughter’ ribbing. This is blood.”

            “I still-”

            Castiel speaks over him. “Crowley can head off Rowena, if need be. Although she may assume we’ve all been wiped out and won’t bother watching Roche anyway. Sam and Adam can complete the spell. Jody, Charlie and Benny will take defense just in case.”

            “What about me?” Claire sits up, glaring at the angel.

            “You’re not going.”

            “Excuse me?” she bites. “No. You don’t get to pull me in and then tell me to stay home. I’m just as capable as anyone here, Castiel. I can help. I _want_ to help.”

            “Claire-”

            “It was almost me,” she gives voice to the thoughts that have haunted her for years. “My dad got shot, remember? And he made you take him instead. I don’t think he could have imagined where that would lead, that the choice he made would ultimately kill him, but his sacrifice left me free to make my own decisions, live my own life.”

            “Keep you out of _this_ life,” Castiel argues.

            Claire stands, shaking off Adam’s hand when he tries to stop her. “Castiel, the impact you had didn’t just go away when you did. There was no going back to normal for me. I didn’t want to go back to normal! I can make a difference here, just like my dad did,” she chews her bottom lip, willing him to understand. “Honestly, hunting with Georgia made me feel like I was doing something. Taking care of the little things so you and the Winchesters could concentrate on the big picture-”

            A chill rushes through the room as Castiel turns on Georgia. “ _Hunting?_ ”

            “Oh-ohkay,” she rubs at the back of her neck in a way that reminds him of Dean and his anger subsides. “That is a little misleading. We didn’t hunt, per se. Just, after the vampire incident, it seemed…prudent to teach Claire how to defend herself.”

            “Crowley was protecting her,” Cas says.

            Sam’s jaw ticks.

            “Yes, good, true,” Georgia agrees. “But that’s not entirely foolproof, accidents happen. It was just tiny hunts, barely worth mentioning, vampires preying on homeless kids. Witches harvesting organs from street animals-”

            “-there was that banshee-” Claire begins to interject but Georgia shushes her.

            “Just tiny things!” Georgia swears. “What she’s saying is that she wants to help and it’s not up to you to tell her no.”

            “Claire, I care about you,” Castiel attempts. “If something were to happen to you…”

            “And I care about you, Castiel,” she takes a knee in front of him, clasping his hands in hers. “I can do this. Please.”

            “We’re already down four at the Rock,” Benny says.

            Sam grinds his teeth.

            “This is not the life he wanted for you,” Castiel whispers to Claire.

            She brings two fingers up as if she means to heal him, and traces the curve of his brow, focusing on eyes so similar to her own. “He would want me to help.”

            That much is true, Castiel knows. Jimmy would have trusted Castiel and the others to protect Claire, yes, but ultimately he’d be proud that she was willing to fight beside them. It was the worst kind of Catch-22.

            “Are we forgetting that this isn’t the stupidest part of the plan? Us ladies can handle ourselves,” Jody says. “Let Sam, Adam and Roderick do their little magic tricks while we do the heavy lifting. What about you?”

            “Dean and Cain will rip us apart to get what they want,” Castiel says. “They’ll try to grab someone at Roche to use as a bargaining chip.”

            “And yet we’re still planning on going,” Jody asks, nodding like she’s not remotely surprised.

            “Yes,” Georgia says, placing the First Blade in the center of the table. “Because Castiel and I are going to make a gigantic spectacle of ourselves.”

            “By dangling exactly what they want in front of their faces?” Adam asks.

            “No better way,” Georgia shrugs.

            “We know they want the Blade and this presents them an opportunity to retrieve it,” Castiel explains. “If we keep them focused on us, they won’t be focused on you.”

            “One of them still might take a chance,” Charlie sighs, massaging the headache building at the base of her skull.

            “They can’t risk the other getting a hold of the Blade. I am certain they’ll both show.”

            Sam finally snaps. “You’re asking me to let my _best friend_ and my _sister_ walk into the Thunder Dome to face off against my _brother_ and her _father_?”

            “Sam,” Castiel says as calmly as possible. “We’re not asking.”

            “And we’re just supposed to what? Hope that Gabriel not only shows but is willing to help?”

            “He likes you, Sam,” Castiel says. “And he’ll owe you.”

            Castiel is unshakeable so Sam turns his complaints to Georgia, hoping she might be more reasonable. “Cain taught you everything you know, you really think you can outsmart him?”

            Georgia answers his question with one of her own. “John and Dean teach you everything you know?”

            “Mostly,” Sam says.

            She nods. “But there was that little part in your brain, wasn’t there? That always wondered, ‘What if I had to fight _them_? What if _they_ were the enemy?’ Cain has a stiff shoulder from when he got kicked by a horse. He relies a little heavily on the whole telekinesis thing…”

            “Dean can’t resist making a final quip, leaves himself open a little too long,” Sam mutters.

            “When the Knights, when Abaddon, got Colette, I saw the villain he could become, the danger he could present if something went wrong,” Georgia says. “He was motivated by love, then, which is a lot more dangerous than the rage fueling him now. Rage burns off. Love will make you do…monstrous things.”

            She pats Sam on the shoulder. “So thanks for worrying about me, big bro. But we got this.”

“And what if we don’t get there in time?” Sam asks.

            Castiel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

***

            There’s a half-crumbled barn in an overgrown wheat field in Pontiac, Illinois. It wasn’t always overgrown, in fact, for the better part of the last century it was barren. The farmer who owned the land planted turnips to stop the topsoil from blowing in the strong Illinois wind but even those shriveled, yellowed like the wood slats of the barn itself.

            Until a few years back when lightning lit up the sky like artillery and storms rolled across the Midwest. The field bloomed, blossomed, hearty wheat growing though it hadn’t been planted in decades. The farmer didn’t believe the harvest had anything to do with the new graffiti in his recently white-washed barn or the shotgun shells that littered the dirt but didn’t want to risk upsetting the gods that had blessed him and carefully backed out of the barn and chained it shut.

            It’s a full moon when Castiel and Georgia appear outside the barn in a ruffle of feathers and rush of wind. Georgia checks her watches, giving Castiel a few moments to collect himself, remember the first time he laid eyes on Dean Winchester.

            He glances over at last; jaw clenched tight, and nods for them to proceed. “Where’s your dog?” he asks.

            “Under orders not to leave Claire Novak’s side.”

            Castiel balks at the risk Georgia took in sending Juliet away.

            Georgia makes it three steps before her knees give out and her carefully crafted façade of _don’t worry_ and _got this_ crumbles. She sinks to the dirt, First Blade tumbling from her fingers as she crushes shaking palms over her mouth to hold in her sobs.

            _“We have eight and a half minutes for the spell,” Charlie had said. “From start to finish.”_

            She’s going to fight her father.

            _“You have to keep them occupied for eight and a half minutes.”_

            She’s going to let Castiel fight Dean.

            _“We’ll bring the calvary,” she’d promised. “Eight and a half minutes.”_

            She didn’t kill Rowena when she had the chance. _Whatever happens here,_ she thinks as tears run over the backs of her hands, _this is on me._

            Castiel, for his part, doesn’t lie to her. He doesn’t tell her everything will be okay, that Cain will see reason or Dean will lay down his arms. He knows, probably better than anyone, what they’re walking into.

            What their chances are of walking out.

            _“Eight and a half minutes.”_

            Georgia pulls herself to her feet and Castiel blasts open the doors, wood splintering across the dirt like shrapnel. Together they step forward into the moon-drenched interior of the barn where, with one last look at her watches, Georgia dips her chin, clicks on a timer.

            And drives the First Blade hilt-deep in the center of the barn.

***

            “Nice suit,” Dean says, arriving with a low rumble that reminds Cas of the Impala.

            “It seemed appropriate,” Castiel gestures to the restored garment Jimmy Novak chose. Claire had even helped him with the tie. “Hello, Dean.”

            Dean’s green eyes flit between the Blade in the dirt and the angel. It’s equidistant between them, Georgia and Cas having taken the north corners of the barn leaving the southern corners for Dean and Cain.

            He makes a move forward and Castiel matches him, step for step, until mere feet separate them.

            “Really, Cas?” Dean rolls his shoulders, black shirt pulling tight across his chest. “Gonna go with fisticuffs again? I didn’t kick your ass enough the first time?”

            The shirt throws Castiel off, confuses him, because it’s not like Dean to leave so much skin exposed. But then Dean flexes his fingers, clenches his fists as if he’s preparing, and the thick cords of muscle over his forearms rise and fall, the Mark bold on his skin.

            It’s defense, Castiel realizes. If Dean can remind the angel that it’s a curse, that this isn’t _Dean_ , not really, it’s the Mark corrupting him, Castiel may pull his punches. He can’t let that sway him of course, just as he can’t let Mark of Cain Dean walk out of this barn and be lost to the wind.

            This ends here and it ends now.

            Georgia tracks the foot prints placed by unseen feet. They’d paused behind Dean briefly and then circled the Blade, checking for wards and curses. Then, ever so slowly, they’d gone in a wide arc, coming to rest at the angel’s side.

            Georgia strikes, kicking out Cain’s legs and breaking his concentration on remaining invisible, before the knife he’s aiming at Castiel can hit its mark. Cas recoils, so focused on Dean he hadn’t noticed Cain’s approach.

            “Stand down, Georgia,” Cain commands with a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t seem dressed for battle, he looks like he’d been taking a winter stroll through the park, but the way his gaze is trained on her is like a cat watching a moth.

            Biding its time.

            “Do you really believe you can beat me? I know you don’t want to do this, Georgia. You don’t want to be a killer, a murderer. You’re not like me,” he sighs, disappointed.

            “I guess we’ll find out,” she smiles, grasping a spare blade in her hand. “To be honest, I’ve been waiting for this.”

            “I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you,” he circles closer. “I always held back.”

            He lashes out with a blade from his sleeve.

            She catches his arm, ducks under, and cranks on his wrist until he drops the blade. He resorts to driving his boot heel into her shin to get her to let go. They square off, fists raised, no hint of father-daughter play fighting in their stances.

            “Me too, pops,” Georgia snarks. She flicks the blade to the ground at his feet and he watches its path. When he glances up, critique about the poor throw at the ready, she’s already halfway across the barn, using his moment of distraction to full-body tackle him.

***

            Castiel hears Georgia say that she’s been waiting for this and knows they now have five minutes.

            Sam will have started the spell three and a half minutes ago. Crowley would have added the Tulpa blood and Holy thistle at one minute forty-five seconds. The fire should be glowing black.

            He will assume, for his own sanity, that Rowena has not launched an attack.

            “What do you think?” Dean asks watching Cain and Georgia duke it out. As if he and Castiel aren’t about to do the same. “Ten bucks on the girl?”

            Cas doesn’t reply, merely fixes Dean with a heated glare that tells him exactly how hilarious he _doesn’t_ find him. Georgia crushes an elbow into Cain’s nose and the Father of Murder retaliates with a knee to her stomach.

            Dean slow blinks a few times, measuring the distance between Cas and the Blade. “Nah,” he mutters and takes a step.

            Cas flashes into existence in the space between them. “If you think I won’t stop you, you’re wrong.”

            Dean rushes him unexpectedly, pulling the angel in close by his lapels. Cas keeps his hands down, appearing unruffled. Unaffected.

            It pisses Dean off.

            “If _you_ think this little trip down memory lane,” he indicates the barn around them. “Will make me weep for the good ol’ days, you clearly forgot what happened next.”

            Castiel doesn’t feel the blade when it’s driven into his shoulder. He shoves Dean away and with the same cold indifference he displayed the first time they met,  pulls it out and drops it to the dirt.

            “What’s the matter?” the angel asks, head tilted, knowing _knowing_ there is no better way to rile Dean up. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved?”

            What he doesn’t expect, however, is the absolute viciousness with which Dean attacks.

He’s fought Dean before, and watched him fight with more attention than was probably necessary. Demons he’s hated and people he’s loved, Dean fights smart and quick. He doesn’t leave gaps, he’s clever, dangerously so.

            Castiel blinks blood from his eyes before he feels the sting of broken skin. It’s luck and instinct that forces his arm up, halting the incoming punch that would have broken his nose and momentarily blinded him. He stumbles back half a step before remembering that he can’t let Dean get any closer to the Blade, so he forces himself onward, into Dean’s space though it costs him a blow to the ear, and knocks the hunter away.

            Dean rolls them until he’s on top and doesn’t hesitate to drive his knee into Castiel’s chin, knocking the angel’s teeth together and snapping his head back so fast that darkness eats at his vision.

            He scrambles but it’s already too late, Dean’s on his feet, strolling casually forward, locking his fingers around the Blade’s hilt and tugging.

            And just like Arthur, Dean Winchester draws the sword from the stone.

***

            Cain lets out a furious growl when Dean gets a hold of the Blade, trails of red racing from the hunter’s palm to his forearm, making the brand glow bright. Georgia kicks her feet, trying to dislodge Cain from her chest but it’s useless. Her size, as always, is working against her and no matter how hard she tries to buck him off, he’s concrete weight on her shoulders. She panics, twisting her neck to bite his knee.

            His blue eyes sparkle and he grins, beard twitching in mirth at her futile attempts to free herself. “I am severely disappointed, Georgia. I expected better from you.”

            She draws her knees up to pound at his back but it’s not enough to get through the thick coat. It is enough, nevertheless, to draw the pistol Jody had slipped her from her boot.

            The bullet catches him in the shoulder blade, throwing him over her, and she’s on her feet a second later to raise the pistol. He knocks it from her hand with a casual, telekinetic flick of his wrist.

            “Uh, cheating much?” she asks like the high schooler she never was.

            “And a firearm isn’t? I raised you better than that,” he hisses.

            “You raised me to be resourceful,” she says.

            The gun is resting in the dirt six and a half feet away. She can risk a leap for it, but Cain may throw a blade. It won’t kill her, no, but it risks slowing her down and if Dean spots an opening to take her out, he will.

            This is the same risk that Cain faces were she to incapacitate him.

            She takes the jump anyway, if only to keep Cain distracted, and slides to the ground. Cain is already there, boot smashing her grasping hands and at least three fingers break.

            But everything gets worse the second time Cain’s boot slams into her, crushing the iron watches to pieces.

            She scrambles away, mind blanking, wondering if she can defend herself, fight back, and keep count of how many more seconds she has to drag this out. It doesn’t matter, she realizes, as a moment later Cain is on her and a blade is being driven into the tender skin under her ribs.

            The blood makes her slippery though and Cain loses his grip. She knocks him away with a kick and flips to her feet behind him, wrenching his wrist toward her chest and she feels the break of his shoulder. The horse had laid a fault line centuries ago but Georgia cracks it open, driving Cain to his knees.

            It doesn’t matter.

            There’s a gasp of pain and a flash of blue fire.

            The resulting explosion throws Cain and Georgia into the walls of the barn.

            Then there is only silence.

            Until Dean starts screaming.

***

            Cas and Georgia had agreed to stay out of each other’s way. Georgia would take Cain and Castiel would take Dean and no matter what kind of trouble the other got into, they would stick to their missions. “Might as well forget I’m here,” Georgia had said.

            Castiel couldn’t do that, naturally. So he’s already taking steps toward a pinned Georgia when Dean gets an arm around him, throwing the angel to the ground. He hears the fatherly critique and regrets the distraction since it allowed Dean to adopt Cain’s position, his weight heavy on Castiel’s shoulders and he tilts the angel’s chin up with the First Blade.

            “Too much heart,” Dean clicks his tongue.

            The gun blast surprises the hunter and Castiel leverages to the side, managing to throw Dean off. He laughs though, dusting off his jeans as he stands, dirt caking on his sweaty arms.

            Dean flips the Blade a few times, end over end, before chuckling again. He turns, already heading for the door before Castiel realizes he means to leave. He’s simply going to take the Blade and walk away.

            Castiel can’t let that happen. Dean still bears the Mark, is even more dangerous now armed with the Blade. He can’t let Dean out of this barn.

            He spares one last glance at Georgia only to find her staring dumbfounded at the shattered watches on her arm. There’s no way to know, then, how much time they have left, how much longer until reinforcements arrive.

            Not that dragging it out has ever been part of Castiel’s plan.

            He appears between Dean and the doorway with a flash of lightning and broken wings.

            “That supposed to make me cower, huh?” Dean asks but stops all the same.

            Castiel closes the distance between them. He doesn’t think of what is about to happen. Instead he remembers breaching the hunter’s space, forcing him against the wall and crushing his mouth to his. The smell of Dean, leather and sweat, in his nose instead of blood and gun powder. The feel of Dean’s skin under his fingertips, warm and alive, instead of buzzing with demonic fury.

            He wraps his palms around Dean’s wrists forcing the Blade Dean’s holding so tight back toward the hunter.

            “So this is it then?” Dean asks, voice straining as much as his muscles. “Really?”

            Castiel slides his hand over Dean’s, securing the hunter’s grip on the Blade.

            “Hate to break it to you,” Dean quips, twisting the Blade point back toward Cas. His skin, the Mark, stretches over the expanse of his right forearm under the tension.

            Castiel bears down a little more and the Blade shifts, point digging into Dean’s sternum. The hunter huffs out a surprised laugh, eyes flashing black and brows narrowing as he grits his teeth.

            A victorious smile crawls across Dean’s face as the knife swings back toward the angel. “Knew I was stronger,” he spits out.

            “No, Dean,” Cas says, voice even and deep like he’s not struggling at all. Which, of course, he isn’t. “I’ve always been stronger than you.”

He lets go and the abrupt absence of equivalent force has Dean burrowing the Blade swiftly into Castiel’s chest. He slams his left palm on Dean’s forearm, completely covering the Mark and latches onto the skin of Dean’s right shoulder with his other hand, reigniting the brand he’d made on Dean’s soul so many years ago.

_Brand like that, something like the Mark, tough to beat._

His punctured Grace explodes from the wound in his chest but he focuses it, directs it into Dean’s forearm and shoulder, purging the taint of the curse from Dean’s soul, overwriting it with his own claim.

Blue Grace crawls from the rapidly disappearing Mark and the even more rapidly appearing handprint, lighting Dean’s veins, zipping up his neck, burning the blackness from his eyes. The walls of the barn rattle.

_Let me help save you._

Dean sinks to the dirt, dragging the collapsing Castiel with him, leaving the angel awkwardly sprawled in his lap. The hunter makes a choked sound, blinking the last of the Grace from his eyes, staring around the barn with a kind of amnesiatic awe and he notices the unblemished skin of his forearm with the same disbelief.

_Haven’t you seen an angel go kablooie?_

“Cas?” he asks, incredulous. His brain doesn’t comprehend the Blade embedded in the angel’s chest, though he knows it was driven there by his own hand. Just like he doesn’t understand the thin line of blood trailing from the angel’s mouth down to his ear. “No. No, no, no.”

“Dean.”

It’s the smile that breaks him. Barely there, the kind that is Castiel’s biggest. Like he’s content, so undilutedly happy. The kind of smile he saves for cheeseburgers and Sam’s advice and Dean’s snark.

“Cas!” Dean dislodges the Blade, useless in his hands now, and drops it to the dirt, alternating between pressing against the wound and cradling the angel to his chest. “Hey, hey. You gotta stay with me, okay?”

He looks around helplessly, spots Georgia lying a dozen yards away and Cain even further. He doesn’t have time to wonder if they’re dead because Cas draws in a breath like a death rattle and Dean’s focus zeros in.

“Sammy’s comin’, alright? He’s gonna bring Gabriel and he’s gonna fix this. You, you can’t- _hey, you keep those eyes on me, you hear?_ I wanna see that blue, huh?”

Castiel’s white dress shirt is soaked through and the thin trail has become a gush, dripping onto Dean’s knee and puddling on the dirt. Dean hugs Castiel closer, murmuring into his hair, pressing desperate lips to his forehead.

“C’mon, Cas.” He thinks it’s raining and curls himself over the angel to protect him from the downpour only to realize they’re his tears falling on Cas’s face. The angel raises a trembling, pale hand to brush the wetness from Dean’s cheek. “No. No, Cas- _open your eyes, please-_ please not like this. This isn’t…please, you can’t. There’s so much,” Dean grinds his forehead against Cas’s, willing some of his health into the angel. “You can’t go. Please. I just found you. _Cas_ , I just found you.”

Castiel grips the seared, still-tender skin of Dean’s shoulder, lining his fingers up with the fresh handprint.

“No, Dean,” Cas says and a blood bubble bursts between his lips. “I found you.”

_I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_.

Dean has to close his eyes against the detonation of Castiel’s Grace.

He keeps them closed after too. Even though there is razor wire being dragged down his arms and a black hole opening in his chest and a flurry of footsteps and shouts ringing through the barn. He keeps them squeezed tight.

If he keeps them closed, if he doesn’t see anything, it’s not real.

Someone tries to pull him away and he snarls. The sound breaks halfway through, morphing into a silent sob that shakes his shoulders.

“What is that?” he hears Charlie gasp and someone crushes themselves to Dean’s side, fingers tracing over his arms.

“Feathers,” Claire says from a fair distance away. “W-wings. I think they’re wings.”

Dean knows what she sees, what it means, but if he doesn’t look at it, it’s not real.

“Dean,” Sam says into his ear, curling an arm around Dean’s shoulders. “Can I just-”

His brother’s voice cuts off instantly and Dean hears him shake his head, letting everyone in the barn know there’s nothing to be done.

“I didn’t…I-I’m s-sor-”

“It’s okay,” Sam lies, taking over. Dean can feel him gesturing to others, decisions swift, directions absolute. No one argues. He hears sniffles, soft murmurs, Benny grunting as he lifts Georgia into his arms.

Then there’s the solid _crunch crunch crunch_ of an unfamiliar stride moving straight toward him.

Dean finally opens his eyes, staring up at Gabriel. The angel’s expression is upset but otherwise unreadable. He makes no jokes, no threats. He glances at Cas, at the feather-burns now decorating the skin of Dean’s arms and understands even better than Sam that there really is nothing to be done.

“Please,” Dean begs. “ _Please.”_

Gabriel presses two fingers against Dean’s forehead and knocks him into oblivion.

_***_


	21. And the Wheels Roll On

 ***

            Dean assumes time passes but couldn’t say how much.

            People appear in and out of his room, leaving behind food and water and he probably eats because the plates and glasses are cleared away and he doesn’t feel hungry or thirsty.

            He doesn’t feel anything.

            He showers and they must be keeping a close watch on him because the sheets are changed, damp pillowcases taken away and replaced with fresh ones. Sometimes he wakes to hear Charlie reading to him, or Adam putting away his laundry, or Sam checking the bandages on his arms. Claire keeps his iPod charged and on the corner of his nightstand where he can reach it easily when the nightmares become too much. Benny brings him slices of pie, knowing Dean won’t make the trip to the kitchen no matter how mouth-watering the scents wafting through the Bunker become, and Georgia hums when she clears the dishes.

            Dean thinks Cain shows himself once, briefly. He says nothing, merely sits at the desk and watches over him. When he leaves, he presses his warm palm to the side of Dean’s neck and pats twice, just like John used to do.

            Gabriel appears too, surprising Dean by not cracking jokes, not trying to lighten the mood. He, like Cain, doesn’t even speak. Just wraps his fingers around Dean’s and knocks him into dreamless sleep when sobs wrack Dean’s body and rest seems unattainable.

            At some point, he finds himself curled in the backseat of the Impala with no memory of walking there. It happens a few more times. He comes to in the library, in the shooting range, shuffling zombie-like through the darkened dungeon. He knows he’s looking for something that isn’t there. Something that won’t be there again.

            It’s Sam who draws him from the car, eyes bloodshot and worried and he realizes that’s when the sentry duty had started.

            He wonders how long they’ll leave him be. Jody must be keeping a tight rein on Sam, it isn’t like him to let Dean wallow. He’s all about staying busy, keep moving, keep fighting. But, Dean realizes, Sam is probably mourning too.

            Hell, they all are, they have to be. Ca- _he_ wasn’t just Dean’s friend turned best friend turned irreplaceable. Everyone tiptoeing around him was grieving, missing the angel but doing their best to care for him despite the fact that everything was his fault.

            He thinks he begged Sam to kill him on their journey back from the garage. Put him out of his misery. He hopes he dreamed it but the way Sam’s eyes had teared up, and the strength with which his brother had hugged him, told him it hadn’t been.

            He should be getting up, finding a hunt, but the thought of even holding a weapon turns his stomach and Benny’s rhubarb pie goes splattering to the floor. It’s gone the next time Dean opens his eyes.

***

            “Sit down, Sam,” Jody doesn’t look up from her book but quirks her lips in a half-smile when Sam’s footsteps halt. “It’s a rotation and it’s not your turn.”

            “Oh, I wasn’t-” he sputters. “I was going to the kitchen?”

            “I live with a teenage girl, what makes you think you can lie to me?”

            “He’s hurting.”

            Jody puts her book aside and opens her arms. They maneuver onto the couch with easily, Sam’s head cradled in her lap while the rest of him sprawls across the expanse of the sofa. It’s a tight fit but it makes Sam feel grounded.

            _It has to be getting better_ , he thinks. Dean isn’t roaming the Bunker in the night like a spook, haunting all the places Cas had been. He remembers the disconnect he’d felt after Jess died, and John for that matter. The nebulous way he’d moved through the following days, aware but uncaring. Grief made you do weird things.

            She cards through his long hair, tugging affectionately on the ends. “I know. But he’s going to be hurting for a long time, Sam. It’s been a week. That pain isn’t going anywhere, not ever. It’s going to sit heavy in his heart for years. The days will get easier. He’ll get up, putter around, maybe take on a hunt if he’s up for it. The nights will be hard but he’ll get through those too. He’s got you, and he’s got all us, and that’s what’s gonna pull him through the darkness.”

            “I just wish I knew what to do,” Sam says pathetically.

            “No one does. Not when it’s expected and not when it’s not. We say ‘I’m sorry’ and ask ‘Are you okay?’ because that’s all we can do.”

            “What if it’s not enough?”

            “Oh Sam,” Jody replies sadly. “When you lost Jessica, did it matter what Dean said or was it more important that he was just there?”

            Sam rubs at his eyes. The skin beneath his fingers is puffy and raw from tears. It’s been a while since he’s lost his shit so completely, he didn’t even know he could cry like that. He’d kept it together, kept _himself_ together, long enough to get Dean out of the barn while the others cleaned up the mess left behind. It was so very similar to the last time Dean had hung on him like that, broken and hemorrhaging, and so completely dissimilar because Dean wasn’t dying.

            Or perhaps he was, just in a different way.

            “Dean and I had somewhere to point a gun when Jess died,” Sam says. “There’s no revenge here, no getting even. It’s bad enough that Ca-that he died but it wasn’t some demon or monster that got him, it was Dean.”

            “Castiel,” Jody presses the name into his hair with a kiss.

            “There was still a cost, a price and I don’t give a shit that Cas knew what he was doing, that he never meant to make it out of that barn. He should have known what it would do to Dean,” the words are harsh but they come out broken.

            “He knew,” Jody agrees. “Just like he knew we’d be here to put him back together.”

            “Oh sure,” Gabriel says, vaulting over the back of the couch, narrowly missing Sam’s legs. “Let’s all take a siesta while the invalid, that’s me by the way, does all the Odyssey-ing.”

            Sam hauls himself to his feet and falls into a chair, leaving Gabriel and Jody sharing the couch.

            “How was Heaven?” Sam asks.

            Gabriel clicks his tongue. “Dull. White. Smells like incense and fluffy church carpets.”

            “Did you see him?” Jody asks.

            “Popped in, popped out,” Gabriel replies. “Your Plan B is go and Georgia’s waiting in the garage. They’re mourning up there, but no one’s talking about it. Not a whisper.”

            “After everything,” Sam’s ire rises. “After _everything_ and they aren’t even gonna-”

            “There’s nothing any of them can do, Sam-I-Am,” Gabriel says. “They’re hoping for a miracle, for dad to – I don’t know, make a move? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

            Jody purses her lips. “Dragging their feet doesn’t help, it’s just cruel.”

            “Would he even, I mean, where do angels go when they die?”

            Gabriel fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? See, humans, you have to be good, sacrifice yourselves and save the world in order to get into Heaven, right? Have faith that all your deeds will be rewarded in the Great Hereafter by a benevolent God. Angels know God exists, He created them. There’s no need for faith when you have proof.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Jody sighs, meeting Gabriel’s glare with one of her own. “We’re all hopping on board to make you God and that’s it? Maybe Castiel’s there, maybe he’s not.”

            “If he’s there, I’ll find him,” Gabriel promises.

            “And bring him back,” Sam prompts.

            “Samonella,” Gabriel sighs and Jody narrows her eyes. “We all want that. Everyone here is ready to knock down Heaven’s gates to pull Castiel out, I know. And it’s happened before, for an alarming number of people around here – seriously, I don’t know many cat gods there are but you’ve all caught the attention of one of them – so you think it’ll happen again. Dad will bring him back as a reward or something but it…it’s not that simple this time, kiddo.”

            “Because of the wings,” Sam guesses.

            Gabriel shakes his head. “Because of the _sacrifice._ What does the sacrifice really mean if it’s negated seconds later?”

            “So I’m supposed to accept it?” Sam snaps. “Accept that Dean is going to be a walking corpse for the next decade? If he even makes it that long? I can fix this, Gabriel. We can-”

            “You’re not thinking clearly,” Gabriel says, standing. It doesn’t do much, intimidating Sam with height would only work if he stood on the couch, canceling the entire thing out as ridiculous. But the way Gabriel carries himself fills the room regardless. “Castiel made his choice. He saved Dean’s life knowing full well he wouldn’t be there to spend it with him. Don’t pretend he did that lightly and don’t think for a second Castiel didn’t take precautions to keep himself from being brought back by shifty means.”

            Sam slumps. “Please tell me you’re joking. There’s no way, _no way._ Cas would never just…leave Dean.”

            “He didn’t leave him, he saved him,” Gabriel snaps and Sam knows the conversation is over. “Molly, Kirsten and Felicity are waiting for you in the garage.”

            Sam presses a kiss to Jody’s forehead and slaps the back of Gabriel’s head on his way out.

            Jody reopens her book but gives Gabriel the side eye before saying, almost under her breath, “Carmen Samdiego.”

            “Sambuca,” Gabriel volleys back.

            “Samlacc.”

            “Sam Sauer.”

            “You saw him, didn’t you?” she asks when Sam is out of ear shot.

            Gabriel just waggles his eyebrows.

***

            They’ve confiscated the weapons and alcohol from Dean’s room. The nails that held various blades and blunt instruments hang empty and he’s half-surprised Sam didn’t rip them out. Any of the occult books he’d squirreled away were carted off as well and Dean can’t even be annoyed at Sam’s lack of faith in him because the thought to, well, it didn’t _not_ cross his mind.

            But it’s with a numb sort of resolve that he slides the bottom drawer from his dresser to get to the spell ingredients hidden in the small space beneath. He doesn’t have a knife, but plies one of the nails from the wall to cut his skin, slicing through the bandages and scabs that cover his forearm.

            The scars will be horrifically beautiful, though he can’t bear to look at the wounds now. Starting at his biceps and tapering down to the backs of his hands, thin, wispy lines charred into his skin in the shape of feathers. Castiel’s feathers. They’re bandage thickly and the ointment makes his nose itch.

            The handprint is back, covered too, raw and red but well on its way to becoming a shiny scar again. He’d wanted it, thought of it constantly in the last few weeks as if he knew it was the key to his salvation.

            _Not like that, though. Never like that._

He sits cross-legged on the floor and lights a match, holding it above the herbs but pauses. The blood from his arm drips onto the knee of his sweatpants and he sees Cas again, face battered and beaten but peaceful. The match burns his fingers and he drops it in surprise.

            He lights another.

            It burns out too.

            He’s shaking too hard to light the third but it doesn’t matter because a hand is wrapped around his, pulling the match stick and the box away and placing them on the dresser before someone tugs at his elbows and forces him up. He stumbles, legs stiff from sitting on the floor but strong hands hold him steady.

            “Crowley?” he asks dumbly because he was sure he didn’t finish the summoning.

            He realizes his error and pales. Of course, _of course_ , if Georgia is here then Crowley is too. He was probably better off just phoning the fucking King of Hell than trying to be all shady about it.

            Crowley steers him into the bathroom and sets him on the edge of the tub, busying himself with gathering bandages and soaking a washcloth to dab at the thin cut on Dean’s forearm.

            “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to make a deal with me?” Dean asks as Crowley cleans and dresses his cut with the same focus as diffusing a bomb. He keeps a hand on Dean’s unmarred shoulder as he does, securing him when Dean sways.

            Crowley frowns and shakes his head.

            “Please?”

            His jaw ticks and Crowley sighs. He rests against the counter, arms crossed, suit immaculate as always but eyes tired. “No.”

            “Why not?” Dean asks. “Did Georgia tell you not to? Or Gabriel? I’ll do anything, okay? I know you know that. One year. One day. _Something_.”

            “It’s not that I don’t want to, Dean,” Crowley admits. “I can’t.”

            “You can’t. So you tried but…but then who?” Dean grits his teeth. “It was Sammy, wasn’t it? Shit. _Shit_. What did he-”

            “ _I_ tried, not Sam.”

            “You-”

            “Know why I became King of Hell?” Crowley asks. “So I could do what I want, when I want. What good is all this power if I can’t work it to my advantage? Sure, you get to the top of the ranks and the youngins are nipping at your heels, comes with the territory but I’m old and wise and you gotta get up pretty early to out-plot me. You remember I brought Samuel back.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says.

            “It’s easy said and easy done because _I_ want it. No deals, don’t need ‘em. Just like I want Georgia cared for and protected, which unfortunately, cracked open my heart just enough for you lot to come bumbling in. And now she’s sad and she’s hurting and I want nothing more than to fix it. So yeah, I tried. For her and for you and for everyone else out there. No dice.”

            “Something isn’t letting you?” Dean asks.

            “Possible,” Crowley says. “’Course there’s only one who can stop me and we’re about to oust Him. I don’t know why it didn’t work but I tried all the avenues I have, I can promise you that.”

            “Did they already, I mean, what happened to…”

            “Hunter’s sendoff a week ago. We thought you wouldn’t want to-”

            “Okay,” Dean grinds his teeth. “Good.”

            They sit in silence and Dean’s grateful it was Crowley who found him. He wouldn’t ask how he could help, wouldn’t fuss over Dean or push him to talk about his feelings. He also wasn’t likely to tell anyone else what Dean had tried to do.

            “Why?” Dean asks after a few minutes.

            “You’ll just keep badgering me to do something else and I-”

            “No,” Dean interrupts. “Why did you try in the first place? For you.”

            Crowley is quiet for a long while, staring at Dean, contemplative but with a small, sad smile on his scruffy face. “Because,” he says finally when Dean is sure he won’t answer. “Out of everyone, it wasn’t Castiel who shouldn’t have walked away.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, jumping to his feet to get out of the room and away from the sympathetic sigh the fucking King of Hell just gave him. His vision spots from standing too fast and he careens into the desk, knocking everything over. He makes it to the bed, face planting. “Ruined everything,” he mumbles. “We can’t do the spell now, can we?”

            “That one we do have a solution for,” Crowley tells him. “Get some rest, Dean.”

***

            Georgia had entertained the idea of driving for all of ten seconds. She’d watched Sam skeptically, leaning against the Impala with her arms crossed, as he loaded a duffel bag and a few weapons into the trunk of the Scamp. Then Sam’s eyebrows rose asking silently, ‘Are you ready?’

            “I can’t,” she wrinkles her nose. “The idea of being in the car for like a million hours. Ugh. I mean, I’m all for brother-sister-road-trip-bonding whatever. Actually, that’s not true. I’m not.”

            “Well, that’s our option so…”

            She holds out her hand. “Why do you all keep forgetting I can do this? And we don’t need weapons, for goodness sake.”

            Sam sighs, grabs his little sister’s hand and lets her zap them to a suburban neighborhood in Montana.

            The house is blue and well-maintained, though the lawn a little overgrown as if the homeowners decided they had better things to do every Saturday than yardwork. Sam and Georgia climb the stairs and hear movement in the house, creaks on the wooden porch heralding their arrival. The red door opens slowly and Caroline looks baffled for a few moments before recognition dawns.

            “Sam,” she greets.

            “Hello, Caroline. This is my sister, Georgia,” Georgia inclines her head. “Do you have a few minutes?”

            “Of course,” she says, still confused but amiable. It’s a good sign. When they’re all settled in her living room she asks, “Can I get you anything?”

            “No, thanks,” Sam says and then straightens up when Joe enters the room.

            “Hey, Car, I thought I heard – oh, hello.”

            “Joe,” Caroline says levelly. “This is Sam and Georgia.”

            “We’re from-” Sam starts, fumbling with his jacket for a badge, but Caroline cuts him off.

            “He knows,” she says as Joe perches on the arm of her chair. “I had to tell him the truth.”

            “And he didn’t have you committed?” Georgia asks.

            Caroline rubs Joe’s bicep affectionately. “He told me he’d always known I was an angel. Thus proving that every human ever has vastly underestimated what angels really are.”

            “Chained to a comet?” Sam asks.

            Caroline taps her nose. “How is your brother? And Castiel?”

            Sam’s shoulders curl so Georgia speaks up. “That’s why we’re here, actually. We need your help. You know Dean was fighting the Mark-”

            “The Mark that’s on your arm?” Caroline interrupts.

            “It’s different,” Georgia waves her hand. “Dean fought it, he did. But there was this witch and she triggered it and Dean went kind of lethal.”

            “Castiel was looking for a cure,” Caroline prompts when Georgia trails off.

            “Cas was the cure,” Sam says. “He used his Grace to burn the Mark out of Dean but he, uh, he didn’t make it.”

            Caroline draws in a breath, pressing a hand over her heart. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

            “Thank you,” Georgia says because Sam is scratching under his eye and clearing his throat.

            “He knew then? Castiel?” Caroline wonders. “It’s just, Hannah had a theory. She never discussed it with Castiel, she didn’t want to plant the idea in his head, but she thought Grace was the answer. Though she also assumed his life wouldn’t be forfeit, thought perhaps he could live out his days as a human.”

            “It isn’t healable, not like a wound,” Georgia says, tracing the scar on her arm. “It’s a physical manifestation of a curse, or a gift in my case. You could cut the arm off but it would remain on the soul. Castiel overwrote Cain’s curse with the claim he placed on Dean’s soul when he saved him from Hell.”

            “So the Grace had to be destroyed, forced out,” Caroline nods. “But Dean would have had to be close enough to…oh, _oh,_ _Dean_.”

            “We’re here to ask your help,” Sam mutters after a moment. “You know the mess Heaven was in and Hannah is doing a fantastic job piecing it back together. But only an archangel can assume the throne and he needs a second-in-command, unfortunately, ours is not going to make it to the party.”

            “You’re asking me to allow Hannah to use me again,” Caroline says.

            “Gabriel,” Georgia begins but Caroline scoffs. “His reputation precedes him.”

            “Hannah wasn’t a fan.”

            “There are other angels but we felt Hannah deserved this, and she’s agreed as long as you agree. Chances are Gabriel is going to hoist the work on her anyway. We can secure another vessel, you’re not under any obligation whatsoever, okay? But you were kind of meant for Hannah, made for her. We risk the other vessel if we put Hannah in it.”

            Caroline and Joe engage in a silent conversation that reminds Sam so much of Dean and Cas that he has to get away. He stands and studies the pictures on the mantel, the books that line the shelves, the knickknacks and trinkets collected over the years.

            Could he and Jody have something like this? A base of operations, in Sioux Falls, obviously, Jody was responsible for Alex and it sounded like Claire and Adam were interested in helping out. But Dean wouldn’t want to come to Sioux Falls, he’d want to stay in the Bunker. And Sam couldn’t let Dean waste away in the Bunker even though he knows Dean would assure him that he’s fine, he’s happy and Sam should live his life.

            Georgia stands too, moving into the kitchen pretending to need water, leaving the Johnson’s to their discussion. What kind of life can she have, Sam wonders. Crowley would resume his position as King of Hell, something Sam never thought he would be comfortable with, but that didn’t seem like Georgia’s scene. She liked being out in the action, fighting the baddies, which was kind of counterproductive to her boyfriend’s job but they both obviously knew that. Maybe they’d talked it out?

            Georgia was a Winchester, though, so he kind of doubted it. More likely she’d told Crowley how it was going to be and he could either jump in line or off a cliff.

            Which was probably the kind of response he could expect from Jody, now that he thought about it.

            “Sam?” Caroline draws his attention and he feels a flood of relief at her smile.

***

            Dean’s been doing nothing but resting, hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, and yet the walk from the bathroom to the bed had exhausted him. He turns on his side, making sure Crowley had actually cleared out, when an envelope catches his eye.

            The contents of the desk are spread on the floor and chair: a handful of loose change, a few pens, a copy of Mojo magazine. Dean slides to his feet and spots erupt again, obscuring the envelope for a few moments but he blinks them away. He traces his name on the front of the paper, recognizing the handwriting on the pilfered hotel stationary, and feels the wave of loss like a punch to the gut.

            He goes over the last few weeks, debating when Cas had time to write the note. The envelope is unsealed and the angel had pressed too hard and written too quickly so the ink has bled through. It’s not a long letter, not even close, but Dean inexplicably can’t bring himself to unfold it until he’s certain of when it was written.

            It could have been ages ago. Maybe when Gadreel was still possessing Sam and new-human Cas had stayed with them for all of a few hours. He could have left it while Dean was a demon but the ink seems fresher than that, and Sam made it sound like Cas didn’t get to the Bunker at all. Maybe Cas had returned here after he left with Cain, writing some sort of fucking suicide note before he and Georgia led them to the barn.

            His gaze tracks to the stack of vinyl and with a kind of clairvoyant certainty he knows Cas wrote this before their night together. The angel had shown Adam to Sam’s room and Dean had gone to the kitchen with Benny and then Cas had pounced on the hunter the moment he’d come to the room, declaration ready on his lips.

            They'd never spoken about it, not really. There was never time, considering all that came after, and Dean thought he had made it clear short of, you know, actually saying the words. It seemed so stupid now. In hindsight he should have let Cas know every day how important he was, how much they needed him. How much Dean needed him. And if this letter says what Dean thinks it does, he’ll never forgive himself.

            Not that that was likely anyway.

            He unfolds the paper in trembling hands, tracing the hastily scrawled letters before his tears clear and he can read the words.

***

            “Hey.”

            Georgia spins, clutching the stack of plates to her chest and settling the teetering glass of water with her chin, staring at Dean in the doorway to the bathroom. “Hey, sorry. Just grabbing these. You need anything?”

            “Yeah, actually,” he finishes zipping up his hoodie, wet hair dripping onto the collar, cheeks pink from the shower, and grabs the letter from the desk. “He said, uh, he said you had something for me.”

            “Right,” Georgia nods and shifts, her jaw clenches. “Now?”

            “If you…if that’s okay.”

            “Yeah, of course, yeah,” she gestures to the dishes. “Help me take these to the kitchen?”

            He knows what she’s doing, easing him into things. To get whatever was left for him, he has to leave the room but the idea of doing it because he’s actually ready is appalling. Having a mission was something he could handle. He takes the glasses and nods, steels himself for what’s outside the door.

            “Where is everyone?” he asks, glancing around the empty hallways and library. The kitchen is vacant too but the oven is cooling and Benny's breakfast burritos are tin-foiled on the counter.

            “Gabriel is at dad’s, Crowley took Jody to South Dakota to check in with Alex and Donna,” she reports. “Sam and Benny took the rest for tattoos. Pity I had to miss it, the artist is going to think everyone is in a really weird cult or lost a terrible bet.”

            She leads them to the one of the back Bunker rooms that he’s never been in because he would have remembered the piano. It’s a dark mahogany, taking up most of the far wall. The keys and top are dust free and the room smells faintly of oranges. Georgia must have unearthed the piano and cleaned it up.

            “I didn’t know you played,” he follows her into the room, taking a seat on the bench but facing away from the piano.

            “I do,” she says, pushing back the key cover and cracking her thumbs. “Dad taught me. He tuned this one up when I found it, I hope that’s okay.”

            Dean drags his thumbnail over the crease of the letter. “It’s a song?”

            “You didn’t know?”

            “Just said you had something for me.”

            Georgia plucks at the keys and Dean picks out the beginning of "Tough Guys" before it blends into the song he and Cas had danced to in the bar. “He wasn’t exactly music savvy.”

            “That he was not. Seriously, we played ‘Name the Tune I’m Humming’ for ten minutes before he remembered he had the song written down in his stupid suit pants.”

            “Where did he hear it?”

            “That’s actually part of the story. When he was working at the Gas’N’Sip there was a high schooler there named Christina. She’d sit with him during breaks and play music. She obviously had a mondo-crush but when I teased him about it,” she makes a whooshing motion over her head. “Sweet kid, that Castiel, but he has the social skills of a drunk moth.”

            Dean chuckles. “You should’ve seen the first time he tried to interrogate someone.”

            “She played this song for him one day and he said, uh,” her voice cracks but she clears her throat. “He said it reminded him of him, but made him think of you.”

            “When did he ask you to...” Dean finds himself saying.

            “That day on the porch,” Georgia answers instantly. “When you were glaring daggers at me thinking I was after your boyfriend.”

            Dean shoves her with his shoulder. “In my defense, your boyfriend totally has the hots for me.”

            Georgia shoves him back. “Crowley falls in love with everyone. Don’t go thinking you’re special because he bought you a few drinks and saw you without pants. Yeah, he told me.”

            “ _I_ bought the drinks,” Dean says after a moment. “Crowley made it sound like you found another angel.”

            “Sam and I went to Caroline, Hannah’s vessel,” Georgia explains, the dance song morphs into “Shake It Off” and Dean sighs. He’ll never tell Sam that it was actually “Out of the Woods” he heard on the bus. “She agreed to stand in when we’re ready.”

            She pauses to push up the sleeves of her sweater.

            “You still have it,” Dean says, indicating the Mark on her forearm.

            “I do. I guess it’s one of those things that always has to exist, like taxes and boy bands,” she replies distantly. “Cain doesn’t.”

            “What?”

            “He was between me and the blast. Castiel was so focused on healing you that dad got a dose. It’s gone. It was a gift for me, really, not a curse. He’s already planning his funeral,” she grins.

            “He’s looking forward to dying?”

            “He’s being very Dumbledore about it,” Georgia says. “Though when the King of Hell is your son-in-law and God owes you one, I don’t think the afterlife holds a lot of terror.”

            “You were ready to take him out.” Dean remembers the determination in her stance at the barn.

            “Shake it Off” mutates into a slowed down version of “Trampled Under Foot.”

            “You and Sam have always been big advocates of free will, I get it. But it only takes you so far. Because the thing is, when problems arise, you can either _do something_ or _not_ , and you’re Winchesters so you have to do something. That doesn’t leave you choice, it leaves you _options.”_

“Like there’s a difference.”

            “Options suck,” Georgia says, exasperated. “You walk away completely, it’s not on you, whatever happens. But you take one option, another one pops up and more than likely, it’s worse than the one before. And it keeps you up at night thinking, ‘If I’d made a different call. If I hadn’t said that. If I’d taken out Abaddon before she got to Colette or killed Rowena like I was supposed to.’”

            “This wasn’t your fault,” Dean starts but Georgia cuts him off.

            “And it’s not yours either,” she says fiercely, fingers slipping on the keys. “No one here blames you, you need to know that. No one is angry or out for blood. We are all here for you, no matter what you need, how long it takes.”

            Dean puts the letter on his lap as his damp hands threaten to smear the ink. “What if it takes forever?”

            “Then it’s a good thing Benny can cook and you don’t have a real job,” she quips. “Are you ready?”

            He’s not, but nods regardless.

            She begins picking out the keys, easing into the melody. Dean doesn’t recognize the song.

            Georgia steels herself. She’d spent all of her free time in the last week practicing, to the point where she’d wake up tapping notes out on her bedspread. She goes over the verses again, needing to get everything right. Needing to get _this_ right. For her brother. For Castiel.

            She takes a deep breath and begins, “ _I don’t get many things right the first time. In fact, I am told that a lot. Now I know all the wrong turns the stumbles and falls brought me here.”_

            Dean watches her slender fingers ghost over the keys with practiced ease. Her voice is low and slow, talking more than singing. He focuses back on her hands, noting the dirt under her fingernails and the healing abrasions on her knuckles, matching the scabs on her face.

_“And where was I before the day, that I first saw your lovely face now I see it every day. And I know, that I am, I am, I am the luckiest.”_

            The days after Roche Rock are a blur. Dean remembers taking out a nest of vampires right before Cas had found him in a parking lot. He knows he started a fight then, called Cas out on some of the terrible things he’d thought, cruel words that had stuck with him. He knows he goaded the angel into a brawl, hoping that Castiel would remove Dean from the equation before anyone got hurt.

_“What if I’d been born fifty years before you in a house, on the street, where you lived. Maybe I’d be outside as you passed on your bike, would I know? And in a wide sea of eyes, I’d see one pair that I recognize. And I know, that I am, I am, I am the luckiest.”_

            He knows he should be grateful for the time they had, not angry that they weren't allowed more. That they wasted so much of it with petty fighting and carefully contained feelings. There were enough  _what-ifs_ and  _almosts_ to rival the Impala's mileage but the only concrete piece of Castiel he had was a head full of memories and a brand on his arm. Not to mention the knowledge that what they should have had, could have had, should have been measured in years, not days.

_“I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you.”_

            Goosebumps erupt on his arms, crawl over his neck and into the short hairs at the base of his skull. He’d looked up the word once, _frisson_ , the reaction to music that causes all those chills and the rush that made him tap out the beat to _Zep III_ and Taylor Swift with equal fervor. The tiny hairs on Georgia’s arms are rising too and he’s glad that at least one Winchester shares his good taste in music.

_“Next door, there’s an old man who lived to his nineties and one day, passed away, in his sleep. And his wife she stayed for a couple of days and passed away. I’m sorry I know that’s a strange way to tell you that I know, we belong. That I know, that I am, I am, I am the luckiest.”_

            She folds her hands in her lap, noting that Dean doesn’t make a move to wipe the tears from his face or hide that he’s crying at all. “You’re right, I was ready to kill Cain. But what Castiel did…he didn’t save just you that night.”

            Georgia stands, pressing a kiss against Dean’s temple and brushing a thumb under his eye to wipe some of the wetness away. She gets to the doorway before Dean calls her back.

            Dean’s head hangs, staring at the paper in his hands. He’s swimming in the hoodie and sweatpants and the running shoes on his feet seem out of place along with the bandages that stick out from his sleeves. “Tomorrow,” he says finally.

            “Sorry?”

            “Gabriel’s spell. We do it tomorrow.”

***

            Castiel walks down the stone hallways in Heaven. His fingers sliding over the rough walls, texture gritty, and it baffles him that he has fingers.

            Or any sort of awareness at all.

            The other angels sidle by, bowing their heads in acknowledgement though few speak. Hannah had greeted him upon his arrival but given him no indication of his future. She didn’t lead him to his own heaven (which he hadn’t expected), she didn’t tell him he couldn’t return to earth (though when he tried, he found he was unable), she didn’t tell him he couldn’t visit others (he checked in on Bobby but couldn’t bring himself to visit Mary and John).

            He was used to being confused and awkward on earth, he never suspected he could feel just as out of sorts in Heaven. Too human to be an angel, too angel to be a human. _Too much_ was always Castiel’s problem.

            Castiel knew it with certainty now, he didn’t belong anywhere.

            Even Gabriel, appearing on some sort of top secret mission to talk to Hannah, had ignored him. It was all the more impressive considering Castiel had been standing directly in front of the archangel while Gabriel looked right at him.

            Castiel had tried to remind him that he knew about Georgia’s spell and that, with him out of the running, Hannah was the obvious choice for lieutenant. But Gabriel had swaggered off without responding, no matter how many times Castiel asked how Dean was.

            He figures he has time to make a quick stop, drive the knife in just a little deeper, until Gabriel returns to really shake things up.

            Castiel pulls up a chair and settles himself, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and fixing the mousy man across from him with a triumphant smirk.

            “Hello, Metatron,” Castiel greets through the prison bars. “I’d like to tell you a story.”

 ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben Folds - The Luckiest


	22. They Said Heaven Is Well Worth Waiting For

***

                The sheets pull where they’re twisted around Dean’s ankle and the mattress dips behind him at the new weight. He reins in his annoyed sigh because really, Sam? The whole cuddling his little brother thing may have been comforting when Sammy was actually _little_ and _four_ but being held by his adult brother is borderline sad even though Dean is oddly moved by the gesture.

                Not that he would admit it or anything.

                He sniffles, discretely wiping his eyes on the hand curled under his pillow before turning around.

                “Well,” he says. “This isn’t real.”

                “What makes you say that?” Castiel asks from beside him, bare-chested with his arm arched behind his head.

                “I never woke up with you,” Dean shifts. “Like this.”

                Cas nods, hair shuffling against the pillow. Dean wants to reach out, wants to touch him, but knows the moment he moves the apparition will disappear and he’ll be left alone. “I apologize. Showers were one of the luxuries I was loathe to give up.”

                 “It’s you then?”

                Cas ghosts his fingers along Dean’s knuckles. There’s the familiar feeling of charged air between them but Castiel doesn’t close the distance. “Hannah is currently distracted with another of Gabriel’s visits. I saw the opportunity to slip away.”

                “So you can still dream hop, huh?” _Suppose I’ll just have to sleep forever._

                “Hannah is going to catch on eventually. I expect I’ll be dealt with after things settle down.”

                “Dealt with?” Dean growls, sitting up. “Dealt with how? Are they sending you to Hell?”

                “I don’t believe so.”

                “Not that it would matter, I guess. George would kick Crowley’s ass if he messed with you. He’s being a real dick about the whole bringing you back thing but he said he tried so-“

                “Dean.”

                “Your handprint is back,” Dean says abruptly. “When I, uh, well it came back. I was just wondering…curious maybe, about why it went away in the first place. It was gone after you healed me at Stull.”

                “It seemed prudent. Lisa would have had questions,” Castiel scratches absently at his chin.

                “Believe me, she had a lot of questions, least of all about scars. Georgia didn’t know anything about it because you’d already un-vesseled, right? So what’s the deal?”

                “This is what you wish to talk about?”

                Dean shrugs. “Well, I can’t touch you so that eliminates that and I’m about half a second away from turning into a blubbering mess so yeah, any distraction is what I’m looking for right about now. Listen, if it’s that big of deal, don’t worry about it. I’m just talking out my a-“

                “It’s embarrassing,” Cas interrupts. “That’s all. It’s embarrassing.”

                “Why?”

                “That brand, the mark that was left on you in Hell…it never should have happened. I was never meant to rescue you.”

                “What? What are you talking about?”

                “You were meant for Michael,” Cas mutters, rubbing his tired eyes. “Always. Michael was destined to lead the charge into Hell, he was to get to you first, claim you.”

                “I don’t like the sound of that,” Dean says quietly. “But it was just you and…”

                “Georgia.” Cas finishes. “A legion of angels awaited orders but your sister chose me. I told you when we abducted her that many of my brothers were incapacitated, Michael included. We didn’t have time to wait for him to recover.”

                Anger burns down Dean’s spine and he sits up, turning his furious gaze on the angel. “Claim? What the hell does that mean? You’re saying all of this,” he gestures between them. “Was because of a stupid scar?”

                “No, Dean. Love can’t be forced, remember? My mission was to bring you to Michael but when I saw you…I called it an accident. It wasn’t until I gave you the hint about Lilith and the archangel that they caught on. I was pulled back to ‘Bible Camp,’” the air quotes make Dean’s stomach swish. “At that point I knew I had to maintain my distance in order to keep you safe. If they realized, even for a moment, how dedicated I was to you and Sam, I would have been destroyed.”

                “Just because Michael didn’t want to share his toys?” Dean snarks.

                “This was more than just a sibling squabble, Dean. I unraveled libraries of prophecy in an instant.”

                “But-”

                “Didn’t you ever wonder why it was so easy for you to refuse Michael? You said no, repeatedly, at exceedingly stupid personal risk. He didn’t just need your permission, see, Michael needed mine too. But I don’t think I could have, even if you’d said yes…”

                “Why?”

                Cas traces a few swoops of the feather-scars burned into Dean’s skin. “I couldn’t let Michael ruin you.”

                “You didn’t even know me.”

                “No, but I wanted to. For the first time in my existence I wanted something for myself,” he says. “I removed it because you were done and I didn’t…I couldn’t have a place in your life any longer. It wasn’t right…holding onto you like that.”

                “Cas, whatever we are besides, we were family first.” He knows he’s lying as he says it. He’s spent the last five years choosing others before the angel. Choosing Lisa. Choosing Sam. Choosing Crowley. _Choosing everyone but yourself._ He covers, “I would have tried…I could have made it…”

                “It’s in the past.”

                “My future ain’t looking so bright.”

                Castiel’s head tilts, listening to something Dean can’t hear and he lets out a sigh. “Gabriel left. Hannah is looking for me.”

                Dean panics, lunging forward to grab Cas’s bicep but his hand ghosts through him. “No! No it’s not enough time. I haven’t even apologized or…God, Cas. I-I, fuck man, you basically spit in Michael’s face and for what? I killed you, _I_ ruined _you._ ”

                “You know better than anyone that death doesn’t always mean goodbye, Dean,” Cas smiles. “I can still hear your prayers.”

                Dean starts awake, still scrambling in the empty bed for the angel but he knows it’s useless when cold sheets greet his fingers. Cas hadn’t been there, not really. Cas was gone.

                Because Dean killed him.

                _Death doesn’t always mean goodbye._

                Dean’s pulling on dirty jeans and a shirt and bolting for the kitchen before the plan fully forms in his mind.

                Perhaps Crowley couldn’t help, but Dean has a pretty good idea of someone who can.

***

                Georgia hadn’t planned on taking a nap. She’d popped home to grab a change of clothes and some dusty old tomes Sam had been interested in and suddenly woken up four hours later, draped uncomfortably across the arm of the sofa with a blanket tucked around her.

                She shuffles to her feet, pulling the blanket on like a witch’s cloak before following the clinking sound of dishes to the kitchen.

                “Dad?”

                Cain doesn’t look around, merely tilts his head to the side to acknowledge that he heard her but says nothing.

                “Dad,” she tries again. “Can you come sit with me for a minute?”

                “Benny is waiting on these potatoes.”

                Georgia bites her lip and squares her shoulders. “You won’t even look at me.”

                The peeler and potato slip from his grip and splash into the basin. Cain shifts his stance, gripping the edge of the counter tightly while his head hangs on his shoulders. “Georgia.”

                She stares him down, arms crossed, leaning impatiently against the doorjamb. “I know it’s not Crowley because you’ve given up on that particular battle and I think he’s starting to grow on you.”

                “He is not.”

                “And you still get to be part of the spell so I don’t think its jealousy-“

                “Damn it, Georgia,” Cain slams his fist on the counter. “Leave it alone.”

                “You’re punishing yourself for something that didn’t happen,” Georgia argues. “I’m right here! Stop acting like you killed me.”

                “I will not discuss this further,” Cain’s just grabbing the doorknob when Georgia crooks her fingers, locking him inside. “Let me out.”

                “No.”

                “I’ll go out the window.”

                She glances at the tiny portal over the kitchen sink and smirks. “I would love to see you try.”

                Cain sucks in a breath, steeling himself. “How am I supposed to look at you, knowing I could have killed you?”

                “Dad-”

                “I stabbed you,” Cain growls. “I held you down and I felt the knife slip between your ribs, Georgia.”

                “Yeah and I shot you. Not really seeing the issue here.”

                “Of all the Winchester genes to inherit the sarcasm and complete disregard for emotions are the ones I was hoping to have squashed out,” Cain mutters into his hands, sliding into a chair. Georgia sits down across from him, hands steepled.

                “If you’re going to start spewing emotions we’re both going to be uncomfortable,” she points out. “It was Colette all over again, huh?”

                Cain sits back, crossing his arms.

                “Dean didn’t kill Castiel and you didn’t kill Colette. Abaddon had already done the damage, I know you know that. And if it had gone bad and Castiel hadn’t acted in time, I wouldn’t have gone vengeful spirit.”

                “How do you know?”

                “Because it wasn’t you! Rowena meant for me to catch the hex bag, not you. She expected Dean and I to go all Mad Max and…” she drops her hands, playing with the edge of the table. “And you never could have done it. You never would have killed me.”

                Cain sighs. “After Colette I swore that would never happen again. I wanted to rip Abaddon to pieces and I would have done it with my teeth. I nearly broke my oath to her in the worst way, attacking you. The truth is, the hex merely set something free within me. That darkness, that fury, is always there…waiting. It twisted my love for the most important thing in my existence into hate and I saw you as something that needed to be eliminated. However, had it been the other way around, I would have stood by and let you burn everything. And I would have protected you from whoever moved against you.”

                “You’re not mad that you could have killed me,” Georgia understands. “You’re mad that I was ready to kill you.”

                “I wouldn’t say mad,” Cain mutters, shrugging.

                “I didn’t _want_ to, geez. It broke my heart, just the idea of it. Dad, Castiel and I planned that down to the second.” She doesn’t mention that Cain had nearly derailed that as well. “And as long as I could keep you there, keep you distracted, we were going to be okay.”

                “And if you hadn’t? If Castiel had failed?”

                “Then I would have tried something else, and something else and something else until ending it was my only option. Just like you would have done for me. I don’t care what you say, if I went rogue it’s your responsibility to take me out and you would, simple as that.”

                “I would never-”

                “Yes you would!” Georgia shouts, slamming her hand on the table. “Because it’s the right thing to do. You always think the worst of yourself, I wonder where the Winchester’s got that.”

                Cain groans but she sees a smile twitch under his mustache.

                Georgia sighs. “Please, stop. I’m not mad, I’m healing up. You’re about three-thousand years overdue for a midlife crisis so the next few years should be interesting. We’re going to do the spell and then you are going to take a goddamn vacation. Do you hear me? You stabbed me, I shot you, we both walked away.”

                “Benny carried you,” Cain points out.

                Georgia holds a conspiratorial finger up to her lips. “We’re going to leave the me-being-unconscious part out of the final draft.”

                 ***      

                Dean stumbles into the garage, arms loaded with his haul and spreads the bags and cans over the work bench. He retrieves the rest of what he needs from the Impala, another in-case-of-emergency stash hidden in a trick-drawer in the consol. He reconsiders his decision for all of three seconds before heaving a sigh and lighting the candle. He fumbles with the blade, stretching his palm flat.

                “No need for that,” the clipped tone comes from the darkened corner of the garage. “You look a light breeze from toppling over. I don’t imagine blood loss will help you.”

                Dean sets the knife down, tracking Death’s slow circuit of the room. The older gentleman plucks at the half eaten bag of potato chips and sniffs at what Dean thinks is salami.

                “Not up to your usual standards,” Death quips.

                “I know, I’m sorry. I grabbed what was there. Kind of a had a crew here lately, grocery runs have been hectic,” Dean pauses. “I’m guessing. I haven’t been-”

                “You’re grieving,” Death says, popping a handful of M&Ms into his mouth.

                Dean rubs at the back of his neck. He thinks about lying, making a joke, but Death’s stare is unusually soft so instead he says, “I don’t usually get the time for it. Guess when you kill a guy, it hits a little harder.”

                “Is that what you believe happened?”

                The hunter is suddenly involved in a serious staring contest with his boots. “Believe me, if I could remember it differently, I would. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

                A wrapper crinkles as Death digs into the gummy worms. “How can I help you, Dean?”

                “I just…the thing is, Cas kind of visited me,” Dean mutters and continues when Death exhibits no surprise. “He mentioned that death wasn’t permanent. Not goodbye. I thought it might be a hint to find you. Crowley’s blocked, Gabriel can’t do it. That got me thinking, I guess, that maybe he’s just waiting. He’s not really gone, not yet because he’s not finished. No one-”

                “I’m not hearing a question,” Death narrows his eyes.

                “No one reaped him,” Dean explains. “I-I held him the whole time he, uh, the whole time and no one reaped him.”

                “You didn’t see anyone reap Castiel,” Death corrects.

                _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “But…”

                Death folds his hands over the head of his cane. “I thought it poor form, given my regard for you, my respect, were I to show myself.”

                “So it was you?” Dean asks.

                “Yes, Dean,” Death says. “I reaped Castiel and escorted him to Heaven.”

                The numbness is instantly overtaken with a flash of fury so crippling that he’s surprised the Mark isn’t burning on his forearm. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, turning on a heel and lashing out at the tool bench. Wrenches and bolts go flying, scattering to the garage floor with metallic tings. “Damn it!”

                “Ah, Miss Novak,” Death greets and Dean wheels around again to find Claire standing in the doorway. Her wide blue eyes shift between Death and the hunter and her fingers tighten slightly on the paper clutched in her hand.

                “Hey, Dean. Who’s your friend?” she takes a few purposeful steps forward, planting herself defensively between them.

                “This is, uh, well. This is Death,” Dean gestures to the older man.

                Claire’s unsure gaze goes mutinous in the span of a second. “What did you do?” she hisses. “You’re kidding me, right?”

                “Claire-“

                “Do you have something to say on behalf of Mr. Winchester?” Death asks and Dean gapes at him.

                “I can think of a thing or two,” Claire snaps, she twists a strand of long blonde hair around her fingers, the only sign she’s uncomfortable. “For one, I never pegged you for a coward.”

                “Just listen-”

                “How does this help, Dean?” Dean opens his mouth but Claire talks over him. “What does this fix? Sam loses his best friend and his brother, does that seem right to you? I know you’re hurting but fuck-“

                “Language,” Dean mutters.

                “This is not an option,” she unfolds the paper in her hand, waving it at him. It’s the note Cas left him. Claire must have gone looking for him in his room and picked it up. “Castiel knew the cost ages ago and I don’t mean just last week in the barn, I’m talking _years_ ago, and he did it anyway, _for you._ ”

                “It isn’t that simple.”

                “Actually it is,” she snaps. “Castiel was in my head, remember?”

                And suddenly, Dean does. They’d returned Jimmy Novak to his family but Amelia had been compromised, the demon shooting Jimmy in the stomach. Castiel had possessed Claire, however briefly, and Claire had assumed responsibility, agreed to indefinitely house the angel in order to protect all of them. But Jimmy had demanded Castiel take him instead.

                “He loves you so much,” Claire says tightly, blue eyes brimming with tears. She presses a shaking hand to her sternum, “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

                “Jesus,” Dean whimpers. “You gotta stop, kid. Even if that was…even if he did…I killed him. And your dad, Claire, I as good as killed him too.”

                “Thirty years with the weight of the world on your shoulders, Winchester. Put it down. People make mistakes and their own choices and not all of it falls on you. I miss my dad, every day, I do but…” she chokes, wiping the tears from her cheeks with an annoyed stomp. “It took a long time but…things were getting better. Castiel texted me, you know, and I wanted to be pissed but I couldn’t help but smile any time one of those stupid emojis popped up. Or he’d send knock knock jokes or freaking inspirational pictures he Googled. Sam calls sometimes, making sure I’m safe. And you can’t convince me that if I needed you, if I got myself into something too big, you can’t convince me that you wouldn’t be there in a second.”

                Claire quotes Castiel’s quickly scrawled final message. “ _’You’d do it for me.’_ ”

                And he would have, in a heartbeat. Less than that. He’d given his life for Sam before, wouldn’t hesitate to do it again and Cas had without question been added to the list of people Dean would die for.

                “But if this means nothing, if you’re willing to throw all of this away on the off chance that Castiel will be impressed enough to go out on a date in Heaven, I’ll tell you right now he won’t be. So whatever. If this is your choice, fine. I won’t tell. I think it’s shitty and cowardly and it goes against everything I know about Dean Winchester but,” she hesitates. “I get it.”

                Dean knows he’s crying because Claire looks entirely uncomfortable but he can’t stop and he can’t hide it. So he does the only thing that makes sense, he crosses the distance between them and wraps Claire in his arms. He isn’t prepared for the strength with which she returns the hug, letting out a pained w _umph_ when she cranks down on his ribs. He presses his trembling chin into the soft hair at the crown of her head.

                “I’m so sorry, kid. I’m not…That’s not what this was,” he admits. “It was just another misguided attempt to get him back. Too little, too late, which is kind of my specialty.”

                Claire pokes him in the side and her voice is muffled by his shirt. “Only one of us gets to be a mad, dramatic teenager, Dean.”

                “Five more minutes,” he says, untangling his hand from Claire’s hair. Death disappears with a somber nod.

                “Two,” Claire counters. “We’re all set for the spell.”

                “Three.”

                “Fine.”

***

                “A little to the left,” Gabriel motions to Sam, scrutinizing the hunter as he shuffles over. “A little more.” Sam continues shuffling. “A biiiiiiiiiit more.”

                Sam opens his arms with a frustrated sigh, shoulder to shoulder with Adam, “Good?”

                “No sorry,” Gabriel pretends to look at the paper in his hand. “Two inches to the right.”

                Sam begins to move and then glares at the angel. “You’re totally messing with me.”

                “Totally,” Gabriel agrees instantly. He holds up the paper, “This is actually a flyer for a midnight showing of _Rocky Horror._ Field trip!”

                “One thing at a time,” Sam attempts to rein the angel in. “What’s next?”

                “It’s just a jump to the left,” Gabriel starts but looks over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. “Dean-o and Clarice-”

                Claire freezes, fixing Gabriel with an annoyed arched eyebrow. “No.”

                “But-”

                “Absolutely not,” she cuts her hand through the air to finalize her point.

                “Touchy,” Gabriel sighs but engages the girl in conversation long enough for Dean to pull himself together and stagger to Sam’s side.

                “How we lookin’?” he asks.

                “Just waiting on the others,” he begins but it cut off when Georgia arrives with a gust of wind.

                “Check and check,” Georgia reports, joining her brothers in the blustery clearing. Sam had found the acre-wide space during one of his morning jogs around the back of the power plant, a few hundred yards from the Bunker door, and Gabriel had agreed that it was as good a space as any to perform the spell.

                Gabriel pretends to go over his notes again but none of them are fooled. He requests Claire’s help gathering supplies and the two disappear with the quiet flutter of wings, leaving the four siblings to wait.

                Sam’s studious nature takes over and he pulls an actual copy of the ritual from his coat, ticking off steps as he mutters to himself. “Crowley and Cain.”

                “King of Hell, Knight of Hell,” Adam confirms, pointing to their respective places in the meadow.

                “Benny,” Dean says next.

                “Big Chief Purgatory,” Georgia replies and then adds under her breath. “Probably.”

                “Four archangels,” Sam says uncomfortably. “Us. I can’t believe we are the representation for angels. I mean…us?”

                “We’re pretty like angels,” Dean points out.

                Adam says, “Are you calling us dicks?”

                “If the feather dusters fit,” Dean shrugs, scanning the meadow. His hands are shoved in his pockets, thumb rubbing relentlessly over Cas’s note in his pocket like a worry stone. “Do we have to stand anywhere specific?”

                “Georgia and I take the places closer to Crowley and Cain. You facing me and Adam facing Georgia.”

                “Why are you more evil than me?” Dean argues. “I was a Knight.”

                Sam scoffs. “Please. There were no more Knights. You were like a squire. I was Lucifer.”

                “I was a demon,” he tries again.

                “Me too,” Sam shoots back. “And first.”

                “Barely a demon. I went to Hell.”

                “I went to the Cage.”

                “I went to Purgatory,” Dean growls.

                “ _I went to Purgatory,_ ” Sam says.

                Georgia fumbles the knife she’d been flipping in her hand, stooping to pick it up and Sam and Dean step away from each other abruptly.

                “So us,” Sam shakes his head, staring hard at the paper. “And uh, then. Well. Then Gabriel.”

                “ _Tsk tsk_ ,” Rowena manifests from the air a few paces in front of the siblings with a crackle of thunder and her cloak billows around her. “Seems you’re an angel short of a choir. Tell me,” her voice goes low, feigning concern. “What happened to dear Castiel?”

                Dean takes a determined step forward but Adam and Sam hold him back.

                “ _You,”_ Dean hisses, shaking his brothers off.

                “Oh but I think it was you,” she replies. Her green eyes pierce the clearing, looking for threats and Georgia allows herself a moment to wonder how the wicked witch manages to look so obnoxiously put together. The hair alone must take her ages, not to mention the flawless eyeliner. She thinks, bewilderedly, that she’d been ignoring some practical uses for magic in favor of teleportation. “Of course the cure came with a price, Wee Winchester. You’ll have to forgive me, I assumed you’d eliminate yourself before anyone was remotely at risk.”

                “No,” Sam steps up beside Dean who has curled in on himself. “You wanted Castiel out of the way.”

                Rowena spreads a hand over her heart and scoffs. “But I was just as stunned as the rest of you. The removal of the Mark required a sacrifice. You see, had I simply removed the curse…it would have released something horrific that, frankly, none of you were prepared to deal with. Instead, I chose to steer Dean toward an effective cure, a lasting one. The sacrifice of a loved one.”

                Dean shrinks further.

                “What?” Adam asks. “So you want us to thank you?”

                Rowena crosses her arm, looking him up and down. She gestures at him like he’s wearing last year’s fashion. “Who is he?”

                “I never would have let Cas do that,” Dean says. “Never.”

                “Of course not, daft boy,” Rowena grins. “Castiel had to do it himself.”

                “What was the point then?” Sam asks.

                “Because it makes this so much easier,” Rowena focuses on Georgia, rolling a ball of spitting purple magic between her palms before hurling it at the girl.

                Georgia throws her hands up instinctively as the magic whooshes around her. It fades away with scattered pops and Georgia shakes her head as if to clear it.

                Rowena purses her lips. “You still have the Mark.”

                Georgia clicks her tongue. “Tough luck.”

                “No matter,” the witch sighs, shaking off her cloak. She mutters in Latin, causing the blood red symbols painted on her arms to glow and waver. The light engulfs her and twin shockwaves rip through the clearing, tearing at the grass.

                Rowena blinks the light from her eyes, alarmed to see the four Winchesters still standing. Dean’s first to step forward, determinedly closing the distance between them and the other three fall in easy stride.

                “It makes no difference,” Rowena lifts the hem of her skirt away from the ground as if she’s prepared to run, she stumbles back. “Without the angel, you’ll never complete that spell. My son will never again sit on the throne of Hell.”

                She turns on the spot, waiting for the familiar tug of teleportation to sweep her away but when she opens her eyes she remains in the clearing, the siblings watching her in amusement.

                “Do you know the story of the Hanging Tree?” Sam asks and Rowena blanches.

                “See,” Sam continues, voice conversational but dangerous. “A lot of people died during the Salem Witch Trials. None of them actual witches, of course, because a witch could get herself out of a situation like that. But that many wronged people, so many vengeful spirits…they can leave quite an impression on a house…or a lake…or a _tree_.”

                Rowena tries to step away, tugging at her stuck boots in alarm.

                “The witches could have helped the townspeople but instead did nothing. In an ironic twist, the spirits put a curse on the tree. Made it poison to witches. A leaf, a piece of bark, some sap, seeps a witches powers to nothing. Punishes them.” Sam gestures at the dirt at her feet. “I can’t _imagine_ what standing in its ashes would do.”

                “No, no no,” Rowena pulls harder but it only makes her sink more. “This isn’t possible! That spell won’t work without a Seraph-”

                “Oh that’s right, the spell. Funny story,” Dean snaps his fingers. “We already did it.”

                “Excuse me?” Rowena hisses.

                Something like wings erupt from each of the four Winchesters, blanketing the clearing in cloudy light. Electricity crackles around them, substitute Grace racing over their arms and chests, encasing them in armor that slowly solidifies until chainmail and metal sits heavy on their frames.

                A red cape billows from Dean’s shoulders as a weapon appears in his hands. He brings the Michael sword to his eye line as if preparing for battle, noting that each plate of armor perfectly matches each of the feathers burned along his arms. The handprint remains represented as well, seared into the metal. He may have been meant for Michael, he knows, but he belongs to Castiel.

                Sam had prepared himself for just about anything when he agreed to stand in for Gabriel. The archangel had been less than helpful (“I used to wear my hair…what’s the word… _permed._ You could probably rock a perm”) and he brings a hand to his hair with a sense of mild trepidation while a blue cape whips around his ankles. His hair remained blissfully wavy, not curled, and he tightens his grip on Gabriel’s Horn, certain he could use it as a blunt weapon if push came to shove.

                Green fire dances across the breastplate covering Georgia. Raphael’s healing green flame casts uneasy shadows around the youngest Winchester, giving her the impression of being deep underwater. She holds Raphael’s flask awkwardly before tucking it into her back pocket. Her fists had always been her best weapon.

                Adam stared at Uriel’s sword clasped in his surprisingly steady hands. He’d nearly dropped it when it burst into flame but the warmth, the peace that settled over him, soothed his nerves. He glanced at his siblings in awe, Dean and Sam looking fierce and determined, perfect representations for the angels Adam had studied in stained glass.

                Dean’s chin kicks up and he enunciates slowly. “We already did it.”

***

                “Two,” Claire counters. “We’re all set for the spell.”

                “Three.”

                “Fine.”

                She gives him one. “They’re waiting.”

                Claire leads him from the garage, down the corridor toward the library. He wonders if he should be relieved that Death left with barely a nod instead of a pointed “See you soon.” Death would have warned them, wouldn’t he, if any of them were in danger?

                “Shouldn’t we do this outside?” Dean asks, surprised to find the wayward group of ruffians already gathered around the table like they’re planning a bank heist.

                “Oh sure,” Charlie speaks up, touching his elbow softly in greeting. “If we want to give Rowena another big bullseye like Roche. She can’t get in here. Speaking of, Adam and Claire found quite the treat for Elphaba.”

                 “So get this,” Sam hefts a container that looks unsettlingly like an urn and hands it to Dean. “There’s no Devil’s Trap or Holy Fire rings for witches, right?”

                “Right,” Dean nods.

                “These are ashes from the Salem Hanging Tree, it’s like kryptonite to witches. We get her to stand on it and bam! No more magic.”

                “You and Adam found this?” Dean asks, glancing at the blonde.

                “Yeah,” she mutters, jaw tense. “We were researching.”

                “Researching,” Charlie teases. “Or making out in the Restricted Section?”

                “Anyway,” Claire blushes and Dean doesn’t know whether to congratulate Adam or threaten him. Or threaten Claire. Or put his foot down and forbid them from seeing each other. He falls into a chair instead. “Cain confirmed that it would hold her more effectively than cuffs.”

                Cain speaks from his place beside Georgia on the couch. He’s got his arm thrown around her comfortably while she’s bent over a piece of paper, sketching something out, with Juliet curled at his feet. “The Salem Tree was cut down years ago. I didn’t expect any pieces of it to remain though it shouldn’t surprise me that the Men of Letters got their hands on it.”

                “We ready?” Georgia asks, glancing around the room.

                “Aren’t we missing-” Dean starts.

                Just then, Gabriel and Caroline descend from the staircase. _Not Caroline_ , Dean realizes, recognizing the military set of her shoulders and the calculating way Hannah’s eyes slide over the assembly.

                “Hannah,” Dean greets, shuffling to his feet. She turns her gaze on him and he’s surprised to see it soften.

                “Dean,” she replies levelly. “How are you?”

                “Thanks for coming,” he says, knowing she knows how miserable he is. “We really appreciate it.”

                “Heaven owes you much. I’m happy to assist even under such…circumstances.”

                Dean sits down again, drained, and they haven’t even done the hard part yet.

                Gabriel makes a quick gesture with his hand and the table parallel parks itself along the wall, leaving the middle of the room clear. Georgia steers Crowley to the far end of the room with her hand on his shoulder. He reaches up briefly to press their palms together and then kisses her knuckles. Georgia rolls her eyes.

                “Dad, here, in front of Crowley,” she points and Cain takes his place. Georgia passes him the First Blade, the sight of which makes Dean shaky again. “Oldest Knight of Hell we got. Retired, of course.”

                “Archangels next,” Sam speaks up, reading Georgia’s paper over her shoulder. He frowns at her, “Really?”

                “Unfortunately,” she sighs, standing across from Adam while Dean takes his place facing Sam. “In the grand scheme of things, we’re more evil than these two. We’re practically wearing Team Lucifer jerseys. You know, with the vessel thing, and the Mark.”

                “Freaking Michael,” Sam grunts under his breath, glaring between Dean and Adam. He gestures to Benny. “Captain Purgatory to my left.”

                “Hey, Charlie,” Georgia catches the redhead’s eye to her right. “Step back a little bit. I don’t want you in the splash zone.”

                “Is here okay?” Charlie asks, following Georgia’s orders and moving away.

                Georgia nods. “Hannah, behind Dean and Adam, if you don’t mind. Which brings us to Gabriel.”

                “Sammy,” Gabriel says as he takes his place behind Hannah. “I cannot wait to see your hair.”

                Sam ignores him, addressing the room. “Now, this has to be done quick, okay? We can’t hold the archangel’s power for long so as soon as we’re done, if it works, Adam and I will head to the clearing.”

                “Yours truly,” Gabriel interrupts and bows to the assembly. “Will throw off some low level magic, enough that our little Sabrina will realize someone’s cooking up something good.”

                “Claire will take Dean up to the meadow. He’ll be crazy powerful but we need Rowena to think he’s in rough shape. Be ready, you’ll have to start walking as soon as we’re done. Rowena can’t see anyone appear there except Georgia or this whole thing is a bust,” Charlie says. “Hannah either.”

                “I will remain here until everything is in order,” Hannah agrees, nodding once.

                “Juliet will let Georgia know when Rowena is on the move and she’ll join us. Claire’s going to drop the Hanging Tree ashes and Gabriel will pull her back here. As soon as Rowena makes landfall,” Sam says to Dean. “Georgia’s going to drop her knife.”

                “And we chase her into the ashes and fry ourselves a witch,” Dean finishes, stunned by the elaborate plan. “This is good.”

                Sam grins.

                “Really good,” Dean finds himself smiling, surprised that he’s capable of it. The end is in sight. It’s not the one he wanted, not entirely, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel and he just might live to see the other side. “You’re all, uh-uhm. I know I haven’t been…but thank you. All of you.”

***

                Jody starts the spell and from her spot next to the sheriff, Claire isn’t convinced anything is happening. Juliet had snuffled at her sneakers before vanishing through the wall and there’s very little else to do but watch the group in front of them blink at each other.

                The noise takes a moment to register, a quiet susurrus that moves along the floor, brushing at her knees before whipping wildly, pulling her blonde curls skyward. Its wind, she thinks, until the real sound behind it registers, the lilting tone of a thousand voices speaking Enochian. Jody’s voice blends with the others, the spell lost among the commands that the others are obeying because, with blank faces, Georgia and Sam move apart, allowing Cain to step between them. At the same moment, Dean and Adam do the same, making room for Hannah.

                Benny turns, facing Sam and the line, rather than Gabriel.

                Claire notices, a moment too late, that Charlie had been standing too close, the same absent look in her wide green eyes and she orients herself perpendicular to the angels as well, standing as a match for Benny. She wants to rush forward, pull Charlie away, but the wind keeps her from lunging.

                A concerned crease has worked its way between Jody’s eyebrows but she continues reading, voice overtaken by the maelstrom. The lamps and lights around them glow intensely, so much power threatening the filaments. It hardly matters as they each begin to glow, the ripples of borrowed Grace moving under their skin.

                Each line splits again, a gap forming between Cain and Sam, Dean and Hannah. Gabriel and Crowley move toward each other with equal, steady strides, the distance between them is closed in moments, just as the lights reach their breaking point.

                Gabriel and Crowley extend their right hands, clasping palms, and sealing the spell with a handshake. The glass bulbs explode, attempting to cast the room in darkness.

                The phantom wings the Winchesters sport, however, are blinding.

***

                “I think the word you’re looking for,” Dean quips as Crowley and Gabriel, Cain, Benny, Charlie, Claire, Jody and Hannah, appear in the clearing. “Is ‘ _shit_.’”

                Rowena searches Crowley’s face, looking for any sign that he’s coming to her aid. That he’ll help her out of the ashes, help her get away. His eyes flash red, a steady, smoking crimson that reminds her of bloody dry-ice and he smirks.

                “Shit.”


	23. Rosedale

     “Family reunions,” Gabriel muses, approaching the angry witch. “They always seem so innocent at first, don’t they? Dinner, catch up, inevitably reveal a sinister plan to destroy each other, drinks.” He glances at the others nearby. “Just mine?”

     “Fergus,” Rowena pleads. “You won’t let them kill me. You wouldn’t. There’s too much lightness in you now. Because of her. Because of _them_ …”

     “I suppose you could make that argument, you could,” the King of Hell agrees. “It won’t do any good of course. _Her_ and _them_ are the ones _you_ hurt. Irrevocably in some cases and might I mention, once again, I really don’t like people mucking about with my things.”

     “ _Not_ your things,” Dean mutters into his shoulder, glaring at Crowley.

     “It’s better than the alternative,” Georgia replies quietly.

     “So uh,” Sam begins awkwardly. “God?”

     “Ooh,” Gabriel smiles gleefully. “I like that from you. I do. But let’s stick with Gabriel.”

     “You, of all people, don’t want to be referred to as God?” Sam asks.

     “Let’s see, Mr. Winchester, how would you feel about it?”

     Sam winces. “Gotcha. What is your plan here? What are we going to do with her?”

     “It isn’t up to me. I mean, it could be. I could cast her to Hell. Purgatory. The dimension full of shrimp. Seal her up in a pyramid. Drop her in a black hole. The possibilities are literally endless.”

     “Perhaps imprison her next to Metatron,” Hannah suggests with an arched brow. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

     “I like _that._ I like that a lot,” Gabriel says. “However, it really isn’t my choice. Shouldn’t be. In my new position as He Almighty, which I am going to foist off onto Hannah Banana just as soon as we pop upstairs, I’m going to turn the verdict over to whomever she hurt worst. That seems like a Godly thing, right? Sorry, might be the Trickster shining through. Just desserts and all.”

     “And how do we measure who she hurt worst?” Hannah asks, approaching Gabriel’s right.

     “She stabbed Georgia,” Sam points out.

     Georgia holds up her palms. “Nope. Emotional trumps physical. It’s Dean.”

     Dean looks to Sam. It’s true enough. Rowena had hurt Dean. If she hadn’t tripped the spell, ignited the Mark of Cain, Dean wouldn’t have Castiel’s blood on his hands. _Probably,_ he thinks. There’s really no telling. And as far as Cas himself was concerned, he was going to help Dean no matter the cost. It ached, it burned like hellfire, but Sam had been there. And Charlie. Claire, surprisingly. Georgia and Adam and Benny and Jody.

     He hadn’t been left alone.

     “Crowley,” Dean says with conviction. “She hurt Crowley the worst.”

     “Excuse me?” Crowley looks around, suddenly very _very_ aware that there is a herd of people nearby. Listening.

     “How old were you when she left?”

     Crowley’s jaw clenches as he turns his full attention to Dean. “Old enough.”

     “No,” Dean shakes his head. “It’s one thing to have your mom taken away, I know what that does to a kid. But to watch her walk away-”

     “Sneak away,” Crowley says. “In the night.”

     “Frankly, and I never thought I’d say this, but you could have been worse,” Dean says. “I think we forget sometimes what you’re really capable of, the kind of damage you could do if you set your mind to it. So what will it be?”

     Crowley’s mouth flattens into a line as he regards Rowena. She looks smaller than he remembers, proud curve of her spine finally wilting as she searches the faces of those gathered around. There’s no help to be found, she must be realizing. No one will speak on her behalf because of the gaping chasm she’d left in their ranks. All that work he’d put into keeping Castiel safe, as safe as it was possible to keep the angel, and this woman had ruined that.

     The possibilities really are endless but only one will destroy her.

     “Take her magic,” he tells Gabriel. “Lock it away. Drop it in the ocean.”

     “Fergus-” Rowena begs.

     “Let her live out her life, mortal, human. Far away from here,” Georgia slips her hand into his but he doesn’t look away from the devastation blooming on Rowena’s pale face. “This is a kindness, Rowena. I didn’t learn mercy from you and I suspect you won’t recognize it as such.”

     “You may as well kill me,” she hisses.

     Crowley clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “That’s what you wanted me to do.”

     Gabriel snaps his fingers and with very little fanfare, the witch disappears.

     “You’ll keep an eye on her?” Crowley asks Gabriel.

     Gabriel nods, smirking at the King of Hell. “Sure thing. Might take her a while to get off that island though.”

     Crowley snorts a laugh.

     Gabriel claps his hands, rounding on the four Winchesters. “As for you lot, time to give up the goods. My horn, please and thank you. You wouldn’t be able to use it anyway, stop pouting. Adam, the sword. Flask, thanks Georgie. Dean, give me the sword. Dean. _Dean!_ That is sharp and might actually be able to kill me, stop grinning.” He fumbles the items into Hannah’s arms, snapping again to rid them of their armor. “Well.”

     Cain, Claire and Georgia are the first to head back toward the Bunker, exchanging quick hugs and disbelieving grins. Georgia hangs on her father, steps clumsy with exhaustion. Jody goes next, reminding Gabriel to stay for dinner and shushing Sam when he tries to speak up. Claire tugs Adam away and it’s Gabriel who stops Dean from trailing them like a Bloodhound.

     “How you feeling?” the shorter man asks, pulling Dean away from the group to join Sam and Hannah. He throws a quick look over his shoulder, suspicious of Crowley, Charlie, and Benny in deep conversation.

     “You know that point of being so tired that you’re completely awake?”

     “Sure,” Gabriel says.

     “I’m on the other side of that where I’m tired again.”

     “I’ll keep the monsters under control until you’re looking for a fight then.”

     “I’d say we’re done looking for fights for a while,” Sam says. “Don’t you think, Dean?”

     Dean rubs at his sternum. He hears Charlie laugh, watches her throw her arms around Crowley. It’s really over, he realizes. For once, their choices had not unleashed an even bigger problem. They had neatly sewn up the edges of their tattered lives, though spots are threadbare and worn. There is no mess to clean up, no greater evil lurking around the corner.

     If he wants, he can sleep for a week. He can pick up a book. He can grill steaks with Benny and teach Claire how to shoot. The hole he feels in his chest from Castiel’s absence is raw, tender, but he’s standing. Breathing. Living.

     “Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, I think we’re done.”

***

     There is a veritable feast laid out on the library table when they meander back inside. Dean feels well enough to stuff his face, not to mention the more he eats, the longer he’ll be able to hibernate and he can already hear the memory foam calling his name.

     Charlie, Georgia and Claire make a nuisance of themselves by pulling the worst of the Men of Letters LPs off the shelves and playing them loudly and Gabriel makes it worse by insisting on waltzing with everyone. Sam becomes a warm weight at Dean’s shoulder, drunkenly grinning at everything in the room.

     It’s an hour later when Hannah tries to make a subtle escape but Dean catches a flash of brown hair disappearing up the staircase and stops her just outside the door. The sun is half-buried in the horizon, the day’s warmth being quickly brushed away in the brisk breeze.

     “Hannah?”

     The brunette turns, regarding Dean silently.

     “I just wanted to say goodbye. I know we haven’t always,” he pauses. “Gotten along. But it was really good of you to help us out.”

     “You should know I consider it an honor to stand beside you, Dean,” she replies easily, not noticing or ignoring the blush crawling up his neck.

     “Yeah, well,” he mumbles. “Just, uh. Yeah.”

     She folds her hands in front of her as her head tilts. “Was there something else?”

     “Oh,” Dean stutters, stumbles. “Caroline. Let her know we’re grateful too.”

     “Of course.”

     Dean waits a beat.

     “Perhaps something you’d like me to tell Castiel?” Hannah tries.

     “Yeah, yes,” he agrees quickly, unsure if his shaking is completely cold-related. The prickling behind his eyes is definitely from the breeze. Definitely. “Tell him…tell him, uh.” His hand presses over his shoulder, lining up with the scar on his arm. “Thank you. Tell him thank you and that, that I won’t waste it. The gift he’s given me, I won’t waste it.”

     Hannah smiles faintly and nods before disappearing with the heartbreaking sound of wings.

***

     Dean sleeps in patches through the night. He’d seen Hannah off and slipped away himself, unsurprised when no one came looking for him. He’d heard Sam shuffle to a stop at his door around two in the morning. He’d slurred to Jody that he just wanted to check but the sheriff had dragged him along, assuring him that Dean was fine.

     He’s also not surprised to find a hungover Sam glaring blearily at the contents of the fridge the next morning.

     “Sammy?”

     “Yeah, hey,” he replies, only slightly startled. His eyes linger on the duffle bag at Dean’s feet. “What, you got a hunt?”

     “Nah,” Dean shakes his head, studies the counter top. “I just wondered if I could talk you into a road trip. A last hurrah.”

     “Why would it be the last, Dean?” Sam asks carefully.

     Dean shoots him a half smile. “C’mon, man. Things are different, in a good way, though. You’ve got Jody-”

     “I’m not going to Siou-”

     “But you should,” Dean interrupts. “You should go to Sioux Falls. We’re gonna have a full house here anyway and more than that…I want it for you. And you can roll your eyes and laugh, that’s fine, but trust me on this, you got something good? Something worth it? You grab tight with both hands and don’t let go. Hear me?”

     “Of course, I know, I get it but…I worry about you.”

     “Good,” Dean says. “And I’ll worry about Jody kicking your ass for leaving books and shit all over.”

     Sam does roll his eyes. “Let me grab a bag.”

***

     “Well, hey little, bro,” Gabriel snatches the book out of Castiel’s hands, holding it out of his reach although Cas makes no move to grab it back. “How’s it hanging?”

     “Oh,” Castiel leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Are you speaking to me now?”

     “I’ll just leave you two alone,” Bobby hums, turning the radio down as he excuses himself to the kitchen.

     “Thanks bunches, Bobby,” Gabriel waves.

     “Sure thing, uh, God.”

     “Ugh,” Gabriel groans, taking Bobby’s vacated seat. “The shine wore off that pretty quick. I like the unlimited cosmic power but did you know it’s just a bunch of paperwork up here? At least when you were God you did stuff.”

     “You can do stuff,” Castiel suggests.

     “I don’t have the patience for it. Hannah will be better, more fair. Less prone to teaching lessons,” Gabriel says. “How you holding up?”

     “Bobby has been accommodating,” Castiel answers. “Everything went alright with the spell, I trust?”

     “Everyone’s good,” Gabriel replies. “Pulled it off with flying colors, no one died. Not even the witch, surprisingly, but there you go. I had to take away most of the Winchester-angelness because they all would have started abusing that immediately. But I may have left a few scraps in place, it’ll be hilarious watching them figure it out.”

     “You are a benevolent God,” Castiel says, side of his mouth inching up into a grin.

     “There is,” Gabriel sighs. “The small matter of you.”

     Castiel nods, expecting this. “I can’t stay.”

     “It’s nothing personal, little bro,” Gabriel pats him on the shoulder. “It’s the principle of the thing, you know. In the grand scheme of things, scale-wise, you tip just a little bit…south.”

     “So it’s to be Hell then?”

     “Well now,” Crowley strolls in from the kitchen, swirling a finger of Bobby’s best whisky in a glass. “There’s a bit of a hiccup there, to be honest. I’m remodeling since we closed the gates. Doing some, how do I say this politely, firing. Georgia’s been hounding me, and I think Gabriel will agree, the paperwork just isn’t worth it. And, my little haloed friend, you’re just a little too good for Hell. It’s the saving the world multiple times thing, you see? All that selflessness would really gum up moral.”

     Castiel blinks slowly. “Purgatory…then?”

     “I’ll tell ya, Hot Wings,” Benny appears, arms crossed, leaning back in the desk chair, feet propped up. “You, me, cuttin’ through Purgatory. Just like old times, eh?”

     “Nearly,” Castiel replies, unsettled now.

     “Thing is,” Benny goes on. “You ain’t quite right for Purgatory. Our trouble last time, you’ll recall, is that you’re a goddamn lighthouse in Monsterland and they all want a chunk. Now, due to King Crowley’s point, that’s not really a fitting end for a man who saved the world.”

     “I have to agree with King Benny,” Crowley dips his chin sagely. “Not a fitting end at all.”

     “Then what’s to be done with me?” Castiel asks, though he already knows. Angels who have fallen too far, become too weak or too belligerent were unmade. Destroyed as if they had never been. However terrible Castiel found this to be, he couldn’t argue that it wasn’t just. His tallies of good to bad appeared nearly equal. He was too good for Hell, too evil for Heaven, both too guilty and too innocent to rot in Purgatory.

     “What are you thinking?” Gabriel asks.

     Castiel takes a moment to actually consider this. The part of him that spent years with the Winchesters entertains the immediate response of “Nothing.” A lie. A cover to hide the fear. The same way they say “I’m fine” when they weren’t or “It’s okay” when it wasn’t.

     The fact that he can think, to have a feeling outside of complete obedience is something extraordinary on its own. It wasn’t that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, that he would have accepted destruction without question, accepted that they knew best. But it had been proven, over and over and over, that they did not, and it had changed everything.

     Castiel had changed.

     One day, one mission to save one soul from the Pit. All of it had brought him to this moment. Choices that he made, or those that were made around him, affecting him, led here. And he felt fear rush through him, and relief that those he fought beside were alright. He felt glad that the world would spin on, that angels and demons had met in the middle, agreeing to step away from the humans, stop interfering. Just stop.

     The fact that Castiel was a part of something that got angels and demons to agree on anything seemed like a good legacy to leave behind.

     “I am thinking,” he finally responds, smile wobbly, tears threatening. “That I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

     “Nothing?” Crowley presses.

     “I made it my mission,” Castiel says. “The Pit was just the beginning, not the end. I suppose I didn’t realize that until now, not really. But I did it. I completed the mission. I saved the Righteous Man. And if I had done anything different that may not have happened so no, no matter what happens to me now, even if I am destroyed,” he laughs, a fluttery, happy thing.

     “Destroyed?” Charlie speaks up from the kitchen, emerging with a plate of cookies. “That seems a little dramatic.”

     Castiel rounds on Gabriel. “You said everyone was okay!”

     Charlie holds out her hand. “Charlie Bradbury. Queen of the Humans.”

     “Not actually what we’re going with,” Crowley rolls his eyes, plucking a treat from the tray.

     “Oh yes,” Charlie assures him. “We are.”

     “What happened?” Castiel asks, accepting the cookie Charlie shoved in his hand.

     “ _What happened,_ ” Gabriel repeats. “Is that Cain Jr. is a menace. We had Purgatory, Heaven and Hell covered and Georgia let us forget that there was another dimension we were messing with: Earth. Each dimension had to have a representative.”

     “It’s true,” Charlie pipes up. “Claire had been angel-ed up before, so she wasn’t in the running and Jody had to read the spell. Georgia snuck me in the vacancy.”

     “You couldn’t have known you’d survive,” Cas gasps. He turns to Gabriel, “You couldn’t have forgotten. You knew. Why her?”

     “Because,” Gabriel says. “There is no one more human than Charlie Bradbury.”

     “So I’ve been thinking, Cas,” Charlie says, perching on the arm of his chair. “Heaven seems kind of stuffy. Hell’s a bummer. And Purgatory sounds like a lot of trouble. How do you feel about slumming it with me?”

     Castiel straightens. Charlie’s eyes are full of unshed tears and he can feel her buzzing energy, hovering on edge of throwing her arms around him. Benny is covering his grin and Crowley, as always, looks smug.

     “It’s really the only way,” Crowley nods.

     “Decent,” Benny adds. “Fitting.”

     “There’s nothing to be done then, Castiel,” Gabriel grips Cas’s shoulder tightly. He looks somber and put-upon but his eyes are laughing. “We’re going to have to banish you-”

     Castiel closes his eyes.

     “To Earth.”

***

     “You guys did a good job cleaning up in here.”

     Sam walks around the perimeter of the barn. The skeleton of the building is solid but there are parts, boards and glass, that are rotten or broken. He hadn’t looked around during his last visit, too focused on Dean but he traces the familiar curves of Dean and Bobby’s spray paint, their desperate attempts to contain the entity they were adamant about summoning. Ruby had been terrified of him, something about skies bleeding and ground shaking, which according to Dean had been true, and the doors had blown open and in walked Castiel, all flared wings and blue stare.

     If Sam thinks about it too much he nearly laughs.

     “Why did you want to come here?” he asks, watching Dean study a sigil.

     “I don’t know, man,” Dean replies, still facing the wall. “It started here, ended here. Good place to say goodbye. A real one. And you know, road trip with my baby brother. Good tunes. There are worse ways to spend a day, right?”

     Sam nods.

     “Whole new world, huh? There’s no big bad brewing, Heaven’s boarded up. Hell’s…I don’t know, whatever George is telling Crowley to do. Rowena’s learning all about the finer points of being human. Metatron’s locked up. Everyone’s good,” he says then adds quietly, “almost everyone.”

     “Maybe there is something we can do,” Sam says.

     “What?”

     “We’ve got the time now, not to mention the man-power. There’s got to be something in the Bunker to bring someone back. Just because Gabriel wouldn’t do it, doesn’t mean it can’t be done. We can find a way to bring Cas back.”

     Dean touches his wrist, brushing a finger over the feather-scar burned there. “He wouldn’t be an angel. Couldn’t be.”

     Sam shrugs, opening his arms. “That’s okay though, isn’t it? Watching Cas do human things was pretty entertaining. I could use another forty, fifty years of that. We could do a burger tour of America.”

     Dean laughs, leaning on the wooden table. “I always wanted to take him to a show. Get him to a good concert.”

     “Ice skating,” Sam suggests.

     “The ocean,” Dean adds. “Rent one of those bungalow things.”

     “There’s gotta be something we can do,” Sam says again.

     “What about the consequences?” Dean asks.

     “Screw the consequences,” they both say at the same time and Dean chuckles.

     “I thought of that already. Of course I did. But it’s a bad call.”

     “Dean.”

     “Because you know what?” he spreads his palm over his chest. “Every single piece of me is screaming to do it, fix it. Trade my soul, trade your soul, sacrifice the world. Throw open Hell gates, break into the sandbox. I want to, it hurts too much to keep going,” he trails off, nodding to himself. “You would think, at the end of it all, I’d have a million regrets but it’s just the one. Not telling him. There was always going to be a time later, when things settled down and we could finally breathe and I swore I’d do it then.”

     “So let’s try to fix it, Dean!” Sam pleads. “I hate seeing you like this and if there’s something-”

     “Don’t you get it, Sammy?” Dean says. “I want him back so badly I’m sick with it.”

     “Then why-”

     “Because I want it. That’s the first sign that it’s the wrong move.”

     “Come on, Dean. Please, we can try-”

     He sniffs, giving his brother an unsteady smile. “No, Sammy. Not this time.”

     The walls of the barn start to rattle.

     The sunlight peeking through the holes in the roof dance around like sparklers as the shingles and tin pop and shake in a sourceless breeze. The doors swing gingerly back and forth and a dust devil kicks up, coating the Impala with a fine layer of dirt.

     Sam realizes belatedly that they’d taken their recent win for granted, leaving most of their weapons in the trunk. It was silly to assume, just because there was nothing big hunting them down, didn’t mean something little wouldn’t take a swing.

     “Wishful thinking,” he pushes past Dean to head toward the car. “But maybe it’s just the wind.”

     Dean twists his fingers in Sam’s jacket, stopping him. Then he closes his eyes and prays.

     “Please. Please, please, please,” he mutters as the gale increases and the bones of the barn creak. “Please, Cas. C’mon. Please.”

     There is the merest rush of wings. One moment, the center of the barn is empty and the next, Castiel stands there, Charlie holding tight to his hand.

     Dean hears the rough wheeze of Sam’s breath getting caught in his throat and cranks down even harder on his arm before letting go and opening his eyes.

     Black, untidy hair. Broad, trench-coat clad shoulders. Bright blue eyes like a goddamn sucker punch.

     Dean doesn’t care that he’s crying, doesn’t care that he practically shoves Sam out of the way, doesn’t care that their little spell apparently had some side effects for Charlie; his only focus is closing the distance between himself and Cas as quickly as possible.

     Charlie hops out of the way, before rushing Sam to pull him into a hug. They disappear with a barely discernable _snap._

     Dean has half a second to wonder if Cas is a ghost and he’s simply going to face plant through him but then there’s a solid chest pressed against his and strong arms clamping around his ribs. A rough cheek rubs his as Cas laughs against his ear, breathy and disbelieving. Dean drags his mouth along Cas’s jaw before finding his mouth.

     He pulls away, searching blue eyes and running his fingers over wet cheekbones as Castiel stares at him with the same intensity. “Tell me this is real,” he begs. “Cas?”

     Castiel dips his chin, looking up at Dean through dark lashes. “Hello, Dean.”

     “Son of a _bitch,_ ” Dean tugs Cas back toward him, sealing their mouths together. Castiel wraps a warm palm around his jaw, tilting Dean’s head to deepen the kiss. “I’m sorry,” he mutters against Cas’s mouth, unwilling to separate but needing to talk. Cas doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m so sorry, _fuck._ Thank you. Thank you for coming back to me.”

     “I always do,” Castiel assures him, burying his face against Dean’s neck. “Of course, always.”

     “For good?” Dean asks, chest aching from lack of air.

     Cas wipes at Dean’s tears, nodding. “The queen has spoken.”

     “Charlie?” Dean asks, fingers going numb from being locked into Cas’s collar. “Charlie did this?”

     “It was all of them. Gabriel, Crowley, Benny and Charlie. It’s been in the works since I left, bringing me back, but they didn’t want to-”

     “Get my hopes up,” Dean understands.

     “I would have found a way regardless but Gabriel seemed to think you were going to be a problem. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t do anything drastic.”

     “Fucking Tricksters,” Dean rolls his eyes. He presses his hand to Castiel’s sternum, assuring himself that there’s no wound. “I’m so sorry.”

     “I knew what I was doing,” Castiel reminds him.

     He chokes a laugh, feeling the angel’s steadily beating heart. “I love you.”

     Castiel’s eyes widen briefly in shock before his lips curl up in a small smirk. He says very seriously, “I love you too.”

     Dean scrubs his hands down his face.

     “You’re shaking,” Castiel notes.

     “I just—I was so sure that was it—I was certain you were gone, for real. Everyone, _everyone_ wanted you back and we thought there was nothing…and Sam wanted to but I knew it would just be worse. It’d go wrong and Sammy finally had a chance to be okay, have a life. I thought that was all I needed but it’s this. I needed this. I needed you.”

     “There was nothing to be done until the spell was completed,” Cas says, linking their fingers and Dean plans to spend the next year _at least_ with Castiel’s hand in his.

     “I’m so fucking glad, Cas,” he runs his lips over Cas’s knuckles. “There are like ten thousand things I want to say.”

     “I suppose it’s a good thing that we have the rest of our lives for you to say them then,” Castiel says.

     “Rest of our lives,” Dean smiles and stares distantly at the Impala. He pulls Cas after him, rounding the car to fall into the driver’s seat. Castiel lowers himself into the passenger side, running his hand over the leather seat, small, nostalgic smile on his face. Cas always did look good in the Impala.

     “Starting now,” Cas replies, relinking their fingers. “We can be back at the Bunker in ten hours. I have it on good authority that Charlie is putting together a party.”

     Dean nods, taking them away from that terrible, beautiful, miraculous barn and onto the dirt road. “We could,” Dean agrees, but turns east. “Or we could take our time.”

     The look Castiel gives him is nearly predatory. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

     “How do you feel about the ocean?”

     Castiel’s brows knit together like he’s giving this idea his complete concentration. “You’re right. The Bunker can wait.”

     A deep laugh rumbles its way from Dean’s chest, threatening to literally choke him with happiness. “This is real. I can have this,” he laughs again. “ _I can have this.”_

     “After everything, I should certainly hope so.”

     “Guess you were right, huh?” Dean lets go of Cas’s hand to flip on the radio before grabbing it again. “Good things do happen.”

     “I guess I was.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings all around!
> 
> There will be a small epilogue as well. Possibly time stamps. I never know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, I have a thing now: [charcorvin](http://charcorvin.tumblr.com/)


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